Twisted Obsession (Editing)

52 - Ex-Wife

Lorenzo Vincelli

I adjusted the cufflinks on my shirt, my fingers moving with practiced ease as I made sure every detail was perfect. The yacht was nearly ready, the stage set for a dinner that could either solidify my control over these families or leave me with enemies circling like vultures. Octavio stood a few steps behind me, arms crossed, his usual expression of calm skepticism plastered on his face.

"And you're sure this will work?" His voice was low, but there was an edge to it—tension, maybe, or doubt. He always was the cautious one.

I rolled my eyes, giving my reflection one last glance in the mirror before meeting his gaze. "If it doesn't work, I'll give you a billion dollars," I said, my tone flat, but the corner of my mouth curled into a faint smirk. Octavio didn't even flinch. "But if it does work, you'll give me a billi—"

He cuts me off with a scoff, turning away for a brief second. "It's funny you think I have a billion dollars to give you," He said, the words hanging in the air, as sharp as ever.

I didn't bite, but I did give him a pointed look. "I pay you well and you still don't have a billion saved up?"

"I get paid 50 million a year, Lorenzo," he replied, his voice dripping with dry humor. "It'll take me at least 20 years to repay you."

I let out a chuckle, the sound effortless. Pulling open the drawer beside me, I grabbed a packet of sea-sickness patches and tossed it his way, recalling the last time he was on my yacht—pale, miserable, and hunched over the railing, losing his lunch to the waves.

"It was once! Once, Lorenzo," he said, his voice an exasperated mixture of annoyance and resignation.

I shrugged, holding up the packet. "Just in case," I said nonchalantly, letting the silence hang between us. His scoff echoed through the room, but I could tell—he was still with me.

I made my way up the polished steps, the soft hum of the yacht's engines barely audible against the whisper of the evening breeze that kissed my face. The air was cool, carrying the scent of saltwater and the promise of an evening that would either make or break everything. As I reached the top, the whir of rotors grew louder, and soon, a helicopter descended smoothly onto the landing pad, its blades cutting through the air in sharp precision.

The moment the helicopter's wheels kissed the ground, I saw her—Carlotta Scarfiotti. My ex-wife.

She stepped out with effortless grace, the wind teasing the hem of her silk slip dress, the deep emerald fabric clinging to her body. A tailored white blazer rested over her shoulders, the sharp lines a stark contrast to the softness of the dress. Gold stilettos glinted under the harsh sunlight, and diamond studs caught the light as she turned her head, catching sight of me.

That familiar, sly smile curved at the corners of her lips. There was history between us—too much to ignore.

We were forced into marriage at eighteen—no choice, no say. Our families saw it as the perfect way to cement their alliance, a union meant to strengthen ties and secure legacies. But for me, marriage had felt more like a prison.

My heart had always belonged to **Athena**. I had loved her for years, clinging to whatever scraps of time we could steal. So, I resisted. I delayed. I fought against the inevitable—until the day I finally let Athena go.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I stood at the altar with Carlotta, slipping a ring onto her finger beneath the watchful, expectant gazes of our fathers. They believed this marriage would be a symbol of strength, an unbreakable bond between our families. But it hadn't lasted. Not even a year.