My Fiance Dumped Me At A Gala Because Of My Weight — So I Married A Mafia Boss To Ruin Him
Part 1
The Gold Coast Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of shimmering silk and whispered venom.
I stood near the extravagant ice sculpture, acutely aware of how much space I took up.
My deep emerald green dress was a custom creation I had sewn myself.
The boutiques on the Magnificent Mile simply did not cater to a size twenty-two.
I shifted my weight, trying to ignore the pinch of my heels.
I was only here for Tyler.
Tyler Henderson was a junior partner at a corporate law firm with ties to everyone who mattered in Chicago.
He was handsome, ambitious, and for the last three years, my fiancé.
A voice purred from over my left shoulder.
Megan Davies possessed collarbones as sharp as her tongue and was completely devoid of empathy.
She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping critically over my waistline.
I forced a polite smile, feeling my cheeks burn under her scrutiny.
Tyler had organized this charity gala ostensibly to raise money for pediatric research.
Everyone knew it was a stepping stone for his political aspirations.
Suddenly, the jazz band stopped playing.
Tyler stepped up to the microphone at the center of the room.
The crowd of five hundred socialites, politicians, and business moguls fell silent.
He thanked everyone for being there, his voice echoing smoothly through the opulent room.
I beamed, feeling a swell of pride in my chest.
Then Tyler’s eyes locked onto mine, and his smile vanished.
A look of profound, cold detachment replaced his usual warmth.
He cleared his throat, gripping the sides of the podium.
He announced that for the past three years, he had been tied to a woman who did not fit the picture of his future.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
My heart stopped dead in my chest.
The blood drained from my face.
Tyler pointed a rigid finger directly at me.
Five hundred pairs of eyes stared, judging my round face, my thick arms, my very existence.
He stated loudly that he needed a partner who matched his ambition.
He reached out his hand, but not toward me.
From the front row of the crowd, Megan Davies stepped forward, wearing a triumphant smirk.
She took Tyler’s hand and stepped onto the stage beside him.
Tyler declared they had been seeing each other for six months and that he finally realized what a real partnership looked like.
The silence in the room broke into a horrific crescendo of stifled giggles and outright laughter.
They were laughing at me.
I had typed his briefs in law school, paid his rent, and loved him unconditionally.
He had just used my public destruction to launch his new power couple status.
Tears blurred my vision, blinding me to the sneering faces.
I turned and pushed my way blindly through the crowd.
I heard a woman whisper loudly about how long Tyler would put up with a whale like me.
I burst out the side exit into the frigid Chicago night air.
The rain immediately soaked my meticulously styled hair.
I collapsed against the brick wall of the alleyway, sobbing uncontrollably.
I was so consumed by my grief that I did not notice the sleek armored black Maybach idling in the shadows.
A deep, gravelly voice announced that Tyler was a fool.
I gasped, my head snapping up.
Standing over me was a man who seemed to swallow the ambient light of the alley.
His pitch-black hair was slicked back, framing eyes that were a piercing shade of slate gray.
I recognized Craig Castelli instantly from the local papers.
He was the head of the Castelli syndicate, a man who controlled the docks and allegedly half the judges in the county.
I choked out a demand for him to go away.
Craig did not leave.
He pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to me.
He murmured that he did not find the public butchering of loyalty entertaining.
His voice remained terrifyingly calm as he stated he knew Tyler had just humiliated me.
He warned that running away proved them right and confirmed I was exactly the weak creature they thought I was.
A spark of anger ignited through my sorrow.
I told him he did not know what it was like to be looked at with disgust every single day.
His slate eyes narrowed slightly.
He conceded he might not know that, but he knew what it was like to be underestimated.
Ten minutes later, I sat in the plush, heated leather seats of Craig’s Maybach.
I demanded to know what a mafia boss wanted from a woman with no money and no connections.
He leaned back, studying me with a calculating gaze.
He explained the FBI was building a massive RICO case against his family.
He needed to change the narrative and become a grounded, respectable family man.
I almost laughed, suggesting he go hire a supermodel from the ballroom.
He shook his head, his eyes dropping to my full figure.
He explained a supermodel would look like a transaction, but I was the exact opposite of what the world expected him to choose.
I felt a flush of indignation, asking if I was just the perfect pathetic cover story.
His voice cracked like a whip, ordering me not to insult myself.
He declared I was a woman who built a life with a parasite only to have him feed on me.
He pushed a thick leather portfolio across the seat, offering me a ring, a new last name, and the total destruction of the man who just broke my heart.
