I Married The Don 3 Years While He Kept His Mistress 7 Years Chapter 01
I spent the entire afternoon studying porn just to figure out how to finally seduce my husband—the cold, untouchable Don Lorenzo Greco.
I was setting up a candlelit dinner when he walked in. With his personal secretary, Chiara Lombardi, right behind him.
Lorenzo barely glanced at me. “Encrypted call,” he said, his tone flat.
I nodded, said “okay” in that soft, good-wife voice, tied my apron tighter, and went back to the stove.
An hour later, Chiara came out of his study. She gave me that smile—slow and full of meaning.
I froze. The word “goodbye” got stuck in my throat and wouldn’t come out.
Because even though she was fully dressed, I noticed right away—
Her black stockings were gone.
Then I turned around and scraped the entire dinner I’d spent all afternoon making straight into the trash.
…
By the time Lorenzo came out, Chiara was already gone.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. Just below his throat, there was a faint scratch—almost invisible, but I saw it.
He looked at the empty table and frowned.
“Where’s dinner?”
I took a breath, swallowed the sting in my throat, and crouched down to fix the rug.
The one I’d had shipped from Florence—my favorite. It was full of tiny holes from her heels.
I pulled at the fabric, but the marks wouldn’t go away.
“Aurora.”
His voice went cold.
“I asked you a question.”
I didn’t look up.
“Why didn’t you make her take off her shoes?”
“What?”
“You knew those heels would ruin this rug.”
I stared at the ruined weave. My chest hurt.
Then I thought of her legs—smooth, bare, perfect—and the hurt turned into something sharper.
I yanked the whole rug up, balled it together, and shoved it in the trash.
The lid flipped open, and Lorenzo saw the food underneath.
The dinner I’d made, now a mess buried under the rug.
The only sound in the house was the trash lid clapping open and shut, over and over, mixed with the sound of me trying not to cry.
He looked down at me, all calm and cold.
“Nobody asked you to cook. If you can’t handle it, let Maria do it.”
He didn’t look at me again. Just pulled out his phone and called her, like he was ordering takeout.
“Come pick me up. Dinner. Yeah.”
He paused. Then, glancing at the trash can:
“That custom rug brand Aurora likes—order another one.”
He looked at me one last time, voice flat as a blade.
“No. Make it ten.”
Lorenzo bent down, slow and easy, slipped his shoes on, adjusted his watch.
That family ring on his finger caught the light as he turned it, once, twice. Then he straightened up.
He didn’t look at me again.
Even though I’d dressed up for him tonight—that black silk slip dress he used to like.
He stood there like a statue. Polite. Controlled. Exactly the way a Don was supposed to be.
My phone buzzed twice.
[What’s wrong, little Donna?]
Chiara.
[He had a long day. Negotiations went on forever—he must be starving.]
[Oh no—please tell me you didn’t do the heavy sauce again? I only mention it because last time he couldn’t finish and I felt so bad for you.]
[I’ve told you so many times—Lorenzo likes light dinners. No tomato, no cream, just seafood. And another thing—]
I couldn’t get her legs out of my head. That tight skirt. The way she walked out of his study like she owned him.
Before I could stop myself, I slapped the phone down on the table and grabbed his sleeve.
I looked up. Tears were already coming.
“Don’t go.”
He blinked.
I said it again, voice shaking:
“Don’t go.”
“Don’t see her.”
“Don’t have dinner with her.”
“Don’t let her touch your tie again.”
“Don’t—”
We were the ones who’d been married for three years. So why was she the one telling me how to be his wife?
Why?
“Aurora.”
He stared at me like I’d lost my mind. He opened his mouth to say something—
But Chiara was already back.
She stood in the doorway, perfect as always, smiling that smile.
“Don Greco. Your car’s waiting.”
I couldn’t let her see me like this. I dropped my eyes to the floor.
I’d never asked Lorenzo for anything. Not once.
But this time—I needed him to stay.
The silence stretched on, long and painful.
Then he leaned down, just slightly. And Chiara reached up, smooth as breathing, and fixed his tie for him.
They stood there together.
Him, cold and powerful. Her, polished and gorgeous.
They looked perfect.
The door swung shut behind them.
And just before it closed, I saw it—
A flash of bare white under the fold of her skirt.
She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.