The Don’s 89-Point Wife Chapter 01
The Marchetti family had a scorecard passed down for generations. Anything below ninety wasn’t worth the Don’s time.
Not even me, Don Adriano’s wife—the woman he’d married for love.
After our marriage, everything I did was graded.
For our anniversary, I made all his favorite dishes.
He took one bite.
“Eighty-nine.”
Then he left to eat with Isabella, his longtime confidante, because she had no appetite.
For the family’s annual banquet, I tried on twenty-seven gowns.
He barely looked at me.
“Eighty-eight. None of them work.”
That night, he entered the ballroom with Isabella on his arm. She wore a simple white satin dress.
For that ninety, I quit my job at the UN interpreting center in Geneva, earned seven certifications, and mastered four languages.
Yet no matter what I did, I never scored above eighty-nine.
Isabella did nothing. She only had to stand beside him to get a perfect score.
I once asked him, “What exactly do I have to do to get a ninety?”
He looked at Isabella and said nothing.
I smiled.
So there was only one rule to his scoring system:Don’t be me.
I took off my wedding ring and dropped it into his champagne. The champagne splashed onto Isabella’s dress.
“Adriano, this time, I’m giving the scores.”
“Your loyalty? Zero.”
“Your marriage? Zero.”
“You? Zero.”
…
My ring sank to the bottom of the glass with a soft clink.
Adriano looked down for two seconds, wrapped his fingers in a linen napkin, and fished it out.
“Losing control in front of our allies. Sixty.”
He placed the ring on the table, still calm.
“Elena, don’t embarrass the family.”
The conversation around the long table stopped at once.
Isabella lifted the champagne-stained hem of her white satin dress and stepped between us.
“Adriano, don’t blame Elena. She only did it because she cares about you too much.”
She turned to me with her usual gentle expression.
“Elena, you shouldn’t throw your wedding ring away. Put it back on.”
I looked at the hand she held out and didn’t move.
A blue diamond ring sat on her ring finger.
It was the ring I’d designed for myself last year.
Adriano had told me the finished piece was flawed, unworthy of Signora Marchetti, and had been destroyed.
So this was what he’d meant by destroyed.
It was on Isabella’s hand.
I asked softly, “Is it pretty?”
Isabella quickly pulled her hand back.
“It’s just Adriano’s annual gift to me. If you like it, I’ll take it off and give it to you.”
Adriano stopped her.
“A gift isn’t taken back.”
“Elena, you have a whole cabinet of jewelry. You don’t need to fight over everything.”
I laughed.
“I designed that ring. Why shouldn’t I fight for it?”
“Because it belongs to Isabella now.”
He pushed my wedding ring toward me.
“This is yours. Put it on, apologize to Isabella for ruining her dress, and I’ll consider changing your score.”
“I won’t apologize.”
Isabella gently tugged Adriano’s sleeve.
“Forget it, Adriano. It’s only a dress. Elena has never managed to reach ninety. It’s normal for her to be sensitive about it.”
Adriano’s expression softened.
“You’re always defending her.”
He took the microphone from a waiter and announced the final decision of the family banquet.
“Starting today, Isabella will take over the Aurora Line and handle all family operations along the Mediterranean route.”
Applause broke out.
Everyone knew I’d spent two years preparing the Aurora Line.
It was the Marchetti family’s most important lifeline in a decade.
The partners I’d secured before resigning, the four languages I’d learned, and the hundreds of pages of shipping routes and compliance documents I’d stayed up nights preparing—all of it became Isabella’s perfect score.
Adriano handed her the microphone.
Her eyes reddened.
“Thank you, Don Adriano, for this opportunity. And thank you, Elena. Although she wasn’t involved in the later work, she gave me a lot of inspiration.”
Someone at the far end of the table laughed.
“Signora Marchetti is so generous. She can even give away her own work.”
“You’re husband and wife. Signora can stay home and enjoy herself. Why fight Isabella over such exhausting work?”
Adriano looked at me.
“You hear that? No one is denying your effort. Isabella is simply more suitable.”
I gripped my purse, my fingers turning cold.
I’d planned to tell him tonight that I was pregnant.
The family doctor, Dr. Rossi, had warned me the pregnancy was unstable and told me to stay calm.
I crushed the pregnancy report inside my purse, pushed back my chair, and stood.
Adriano grabbed my wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my room.”
“Put the ring on first.”
“It’s dirty. I don’t want it.”
His grip tightened, but his voice stayed calm.
“Elena, there’s a limit to how far you can test me. The more you make a scene, the lower your score gets.”
“What if I want a divorce?”
He stared at me, then smiled.
“Threatening divorce to make me change my standards isn’t smart.”
“The Marchetti family doesn’t do divorce.”
Right then, Isabella walked over and handed me a document.
“Elena, this is the Aurora Line equity authorization. Adriano said if you sign it tomorrow morning, everyone will forget what happened tonight.”
I turned to the last page.
The fifteen percent voting rights in the family trust I’d inherited from my father, Bellandi, would be placed entirely under Adriano’s control.
Once I signed, I wouldn’t even have the right to say no in this family.
I closed the document.
“What if I don’t sign?”
Adriano pressed my wedding ring into my palm.
“I believe you will.”
“Why?”
“Because this is the only achievement you have to show for this marriage.”
He let go of me and turned to drape a fur stole over Isabella’s shoulders.
The crumpled pregnancy report slipped from my purse.
Isabella bent to pick it up.
I reached out to stop her, but Adriano pushed me away.
Isabella seemed startled.
The report slipped from her hand and fell into the champagne ice bucket.
The paper was instantly soaked through.