One Screenshot to Burn an Empire Novel – My husband’s new mistress sent me a photo. In the photo, my husband was sleeping soundly. The black rose tattooed over his heart for me was now being strangled by a menacing snake. She even added a provocative caption: “Donna, Julian is exhausted. Tonight, he’s mine.” I stared at the snake for three seconds, then I smiled. I calmly screenshotted the photo and the chat log, then sent them both to the family’s elite inner circle network. My caption read: “Congratulations to Miss Cassia on securing her new position.” After hitting send, I shut off my phone. Two days later, I turned it back on. Hundreds of missed encrypted calls and countless messages flooded in, nearly crashing the device.
1 Cassia Shaw sent me a photo. The phone screen lit up, announcing an encrypted message. In the photo, my husband, Julian Griffin, was fast asleep, his face half-buried in a black silk pillow. The dim glow of the bedside lamp highlighted the sharp, chiseled angles of his face. On his chest, the black rose he’d had tattooed for me was now being strangled by a vivid red snake. The snake’s coils were so lifelike it seemed to writhe on his skin. Beneath the photo was a single line of text. “Donna, your Don is tired. Tonight, he’s mine.” I stared at the snake. A new tattoo. It had appeared three months ago, covering the rose that was inked over his heart when we took our marriage vows. Right over his heart. I didn’t reply.
My finger tapped the screen. Screenshot. The photo and the chat log—two images. Into the family’s main encrypted channel, restricted to Capos and high-ranking members. I found the two screenshots and selected them. Then, I typed my message. “Congratulations to Miss Cassia on securing her new position.” Click. Send. The green progress bar filled. I shut my phone down completely. Outside the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the Chicago night was an ink-black void. I strode to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a drink. Ice cubes clinked against the crystal glass. This was the fifth anniversary of our marriage. On the table, the black rose-shaped cake I’d custom-ordered still sat untouched. Julian had called that afternoon, claiming he had a critical, unavoidable sit-down with the Volkov family. He promised he’d make it up to me in bed when he got back. So this was his “sit-down.” And this was how he’d “make it up to me.” I carried my glass over to the cake. The black rose bloomed elegantly, each petal as smooth as silk. I reached out a finger and gave it a gentle push.
The rose toppled, sinking into the soft cream, its form shattering. Such a shame. I downed the drink in one swallow, the sharp liquid burning a trail down my throat. Fine. This eight-year bond—from our college campus to our rise to the top of the syndicate, from my father’s last wish to the peak of our family’s power. It was time for it to end. I walked into the closet and pulled out the largest Louis Vuitton suitcase. I started packing. Everything that was mine, I would take. As for his things, I wouldn’t keep a single item. The whiskeys we collected, the jewelry he’d lavished on me, every memento of our shared past—I pulled them out one by one and tossed them into a trash bag. It felt like a cleansing. Throughout the entire process, my heart was a placid sea. No tears, no roars of rage. I felt like a surgeon performing a precise operation on myself. Excising the rot. It would hurt, but it had to be done. Two hours later, the suitcase was packed. Three large bags of trash were piled beside it. The 24-hour private moving team I’d booked arrived at the estate at three in the morning, right on schedule.
The crew moved my belongings onto the armored truck in silent, efficient order. I took one last look at this home I had decorated with my own two hands. Our wedding photo still hung on the wall. In it, I wore a Vera Wang gown, a blissful smile on my face. The Julian in the photo was dressed in a handmade Italian suit, his gaze so gentle it could melt glaciers. I walked over and took the photo down. Then, I let it drop. The silver frame shattered against the floor with a sharp clang. I said to the crew leader, “Let’s go.” The convoy pulled out of the estate and merged into the late-night Chicago traffic. I didn’t look back. My new residence was a penthouse apartment I had purchased several months ago, with a security level on par with a government safe house. A woman should always have an escape route, I’d told myself. It was proving to be an incredibly wise decision.