My fiancé gave my wedding supercar—built from the last thing my mother left me—to my adopted sister. When I tried to end our engagement, he made me walk barefoot across burning coals and laughed, “Who else would want you after eight years with me?” He got his answer before the coals went cold. A black armored convoy stormed the raceway. The most feared Mafia heir stepped out, looked at my burned feet, and said— “She’s not yours anymore.”
