Chapter 1
The night before I was supposed to divorce my wife, I overheard her crying to her mother behind a half-open door. "I love him too much to let him stay with me out of pity," she whispered, and suddenly the twenty-seven pages of divorce papers in my hand felt heavier than every business deal I'd ever signed. For three years, I'd believed my wife didn't love me—but what her mother said next made me question everything.
My name is Dante Moretti. At forty-three, I was the founder of Moretti Global Holdings, a billionaire who'd signed acquisitions worth hundreds of millions without so much as a trembling hand.
Yet that evening, I couldn't even hold a pen steady.
My attorney had prepared everything. Yellow tabs marked the signature pages, and the divorce settlement guaranteed Alina our beloved Evanston townhouse, a $20 million trust, her personal investments, and complete privacy from the press.
It was generous, fair, and carefully designed to avoid a public scandal.
I told myself I was doing the right thing.
Our marriage had never begun with romance. Three years earlier, Alina's family manufacturing business had been drowning in debt, and my financial backing was the only thing standing between them and bankruptcy.
Meanwhile, my board wanted stability from a forty-year-old billionaire who had no wife, no children, and no succession plan.
Marriage solved both problems.
Love wasn't part of the arrangement.
At least, that was what I'd convinced myself.
Alina never asked for expensive jewelry, extravagant vacations, or access to my accounts. She never questioned my late-night meetings, complained about my business trips to London and Dubai, or used my last name to impress Chicago's wealthy social circles.
Instead, she remembered the smallest things about me.
She knew I drank my coffee black every morning, except Sundays, when I liked half a teaspoon of brown sugar. When she discovered I hated lilies because they reminded me of funeral homes, she quietly replaced every arrangement in our mansion with white roses.
After exhausting board meetings, she never demanded explanations or forced conversations.
She simply sat beside me.
Sometimes, that silence was the only peace I experienced all day.
Six months after our wedding, I was buried in financial reports when Alina entered my study carrying a cup of tea. She placed it beside my laptop, rested her hand gently on my shoulder, and asked if I'd eaten dinner.
It was such a small gesture.
But I remember wishing her hand would never leave.
I owned hotels, skyscrapers, and companies across several continents. Yet that single moment of tenderness meant more to me than anything money had ever bought.
Because somewhere along the way, I'd fallen hopelessly in love with my wife.
And I was terrified to tell her.
Alina never asked whether I loved her, and I mistook her silence for indifference. I convinced myself her kindness came from gratitude, her loyalty from obligation, and her affection from a sense of duty.
So I decided to set her free.
I thought a generous divorce would give her the chance to find someone she genuinely loved. Someone she had chosen for herself, rather than a man she'd married to save her family.
Then, the night before I was supposed to sign the papers, I walked past the sitting room and heard her voice.
"I can't keep doing this, Mom."
I stopped.
Her voice was trembling, and I could hear the unmistakable sound of someone trying not to cry.
"I love him too much to let him stay with me out of pity."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I gripped the doorframe, barely able to breathe. Alina loved me, and somehow we'd spent three years living under the same roof, each believing the other wanted to leave.
May you like
Then her mother spoke.
And the first words out of her mouth made my blood run cold.
