The Don’s 89-Point Wife Chapter 03
Adriano admitted it without hesitation.
“I had someone send the email.”
I threw the printed copy onto his desk.
“What gave you the right to turn down my job for me?”
“You’re my wife now. Signora Marchetti. Your job had you flying to more than a dozen countries every month. When would you have time to handle family affairs?”
“You were the one who said you needed me to quit and help with the family. But you never let me do anything. Even Aurora Line was a project I brought in myself.”
He looked up.
“Because you never reached ninety. You weren’t qualified. And I gave you the best life possible.”
I slammed my palm on the desk.
“Because your scoring was never fair.”
“And cutting off my cards and taking my car keys—that’s your idea of the best life?”
“That’s punishment, not your life.”
He said it as if it were obvious.
“If you behave, you’ll get everything back.”
I stared at him, my chest tight.
So everything I’d thought I had a right to was only a reward he’d given his failing wife.
The moment I stopped cooperating, he could take it away.
Isabella pushed open the door, her eyes instantly reddening.
“This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have used Elena’s things.”
She removed the name badge pinned to her chest and pulled out the Aurora Line files.
“I won’t lead the project anymore either. Please don’t fight because of me.”
Adriano pushed the files back into her arms.
“No one is taking your position.”
Then he looked at me.
“Don’t bring personal emotions into family business.”
I said nothing and walked out.
That afternoon, I got a call from the Italian publisher that had worked with my mother.
“Signora, the media preview for your mother’s final manuscript was moved up. Why aren’t you here yet?”
By the time I reached the antique-book auction house in Florence, Isabella’s name was already displayed across the screen in the lobby.
Voices Without Borders.
It was the final memoir my mother, Vivienne Bellandi, had written about her years as an interpreter before she died.
Before her death, she’d given me the manuscript and told me to publish it only after I returned to the interpreting booth.
But now Isabella stood beneath a gilded arch, holding my mother’s manuscript and telling reporters it was an industry project compiled under her leadership of the family archives team.
Adriano sat in the front row, calm as ever.
I pushed through the crowd, rushed forward, and snatched the microphone from Isabella.
“My mother left that manuscript to me. Every page has notes in her handwriting. What gives you the right to put your name on it?”
The whispers in the hall stopped.
Adriano stood and took the microphone from my hand.
“My wife has been emotionally unstable lately. The Marchetti family will take responsibility for today’s disruption.”
He lifted one hand.
Two guards stepped out of the shadows.
I clutched the manuscript tighter.
“Adriano, this belonged to my mother.”
“The publisher has authorization.”
“From who?”
He didn’t answer.
Isabella explained softly, “Adriano said you’re married, so he has the right to make decisions for you. Elena, I’m only the editor. I would never take your mother’s credit.”
I opened the title page.
My mother’s name was still there.
Mine had been cut out.
The line she’d written to me—
May Elena always trust her own voice.
—had been completely blacked out.
I slapped Isabella across the face.
The hall erupted.
Adriano grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from her.
“Are you done?”
I held the manuscript up in front of him.
“My mother left this to me.”
“Letting it gather dust at home is pointless. Isabella can help more people see it. That’s what matters.”
My eyes burned.
“If this were your mother’s manuscript, would you say the same thing?”
Adriano’s gaze darkened.
“Don’t make impossible comparisons.”
He pulled the manuscript from my hands.
The paper tore with a soft rip.
The title page split down the middle, leaving only half of my mother’s signature.
A sharp pain suddenly twisted through my lower abdomen.
I caught the edge of the display table as cold sweat ran down my back.
Isabella held her cheek and said quietly, “Elena doesn’t look well. Maybe we should stop the preview?”
Adriano barely glanced at me.
“She always ruins things at the worst possible time.”
He lifted his chin.
“Take her home.”
As two bodyguards escorted me out through the side door, applause started again inside the hall.
Back at the estate, I searched Adriano’s study for the authorization papers for my mother’s manuscript.
Instead, I found a black leather ledger in his desk drawer.
Every page was in Adriano’s handwriting.
Signora Marchetti Evaluation.
Family background: 85.
Professional ability: 95.
Emotional stability: 76.
Reproductive risk: 68.
The final line had my name.
Elena Bellandi. Overall score: 89. Suitable candidate for Signora Marchetti.
Above my name was only one short line.
Isabella Ricci. Perfect score. Excluded from marriage evaluation.
Footsteps sounded outside the study.
The moment I closed the ledger, a separate premarital evaluation sheet slipped from a hidden compartment.
The date was the day before Adriano proposed to me.