I'm an OB-GYN. On Valentine's Day, I pulled a ring out of a woman's vagina.
It turned out to be my husband's wedding ring.
An hour before, he'd texted me. Said he loved me. Said he was too busy with work to come home.
I wanted a divorce. Needed one. But then I found out—our marriage was never registered.
In his manor, I was nothing. Just a fake wife.
He grabbed me by the throat—right in front of his mistress. Called me "damaged goods." Said I'd spent a year in another man's house.
But that year, I went as a hostage in his place.
I ran. Made it to the cliff's edge, covered in blood. And the man who saved me? The mafia godfather who'd held me captive that whole year.
He looked at me. "Marry me."
