By the third year of my marriage to mafia boss Nathan Blackwell, I had turned myself into a silent shadow.   He said he liked simple, understated things, so I locked my closet full of red dresses in the deepest corner of the attic. Every day, I wore cream-colored cotton dresses, arranged flowers, and brewed coffee at home.   He said the business world was too dirty, so I obediently stepped away from the company I had built with my own hands and retreated behind the walls of this mansion.   My world shrank into a gilded cage. The most important thing I did each day was wait for him to come home.   But over the past three months, Nathan had come home less and less. Whenever he did return, his shirt carried the same unfamiliar perfume.   The scent was loud, brazen, and impossible to ignore. It smelled like wild roses.   A friend hinted, "Once the novelty wears off, who stays interested in a housekeeper who spends all day in the kitchen? You have to make him want to win you over again."   So that day, I cooked all his favorite dishes. I pulled out the slip dress I hadn't touched in three years and put on bright red lipstick in front of the mirror.   But when Nathan came home, he brought another woman with him. She was his right-hand aide, Sienna Cross.   She wore a tight bodycon skirt. Her hair fell in long waves. And she carried that familiar perfume.   "Nathan, so this is your... housekeeper?"   Nathan didn't deny it. He didn't even spare me a glance.   I said nothing. I threw out the cold food and texted a number that had been silent for years.   Claire: Book me a flight home.