Queen of the Underworld: Ex’s Last Breath

Synopsis: After her mother's death, 14-year-old Fenna escapes the clutches of her abusive stepfather in the dead of night, fleeing to the grim streets of Ravenshire. In her first love, she believes she has found a place to call home. But after marriage, all she receives in return is violence and verbal abuse. Determined not to wait for a lover to save her, she swears off the idea of depending on anyone again. However, she never expects to meet Vandersey. A man who is charming, ruthless, powerful, and wealthy—he is destined to rule the underworld as the head of a mafia family. "Fenna, my love, all I need is for you to be waiting at home when I return," Vandersey whispers, pressing a tender kiss to her lips. "No matter what happens." Fenna smiles back. The heat from the gun tucked at the small of her back is a reminder of her resolve. Only she knows that she will never again sit at home, waiting for anyone. She is her own salvation. Character Key: Fenna Olivia—The female protagonist. The Mind's Voice—Fenna's unique ability, similar to telepathy. The more tense or fearful a person is, the louder their thoughts become to Fenna. Paul Oliver—Fenna's abusive husband. Vandersey Olivia—The male protagonist, Fenna's possibly estranged cousin (a claim made by Paul to protect himself, but its truth remains unverified.) Clement Archer—Vandersey's superior. Ravenshire—Fenna's current residence. The Vegetable Stall—The stall where Fenna sells vegetables. Amelia Darcy—A female government employee Fenna once helped, who works in law enforcement and calls Fenna "The Garbage Angel." Vivienne Carnet—The seamstress who runs a shop downstairs in Fenna's apartment. Philip Hayes—Amelia's coworker. Danno Department Store—Fenna's second job after working at the vegetable stall. She works as a sales associate at this department store. Evelyn Harris—The department store's manager and Fenna's mentor. Capone Donovan—Clement's superior. Annie Greer—The household maid for Fenna and Vandersey, who later becomes Vandersey's mistress. Billy Thompson—An undercover cop infiltrating the mafia who was mistakenly killed by the police. He had once helped Vandersey. Fenna Olivia had made up her mind—tonight was the night. Her husband, Paul Oliver, always came home alone during the last week of the month. By then, his cash would be gone, and he couldn't afford to play the big shot anymore. No friends, no booze-filled nights in their cramped house. Even if Fenna begged for credit at the shops, the storeowners wouldn't entertain her this late in the month. 'Paul will be drunk, and it'll just be the two of us,' she thought. Even without Paul's rowdy friends visiting at night, Fenna's days were filled with errands. That morning, she stopped by the bakery to get bread on credit. On the way, a magazine on a newsstand caught her eye. The cover featured a pale woman with lifeless eyes, and above her picture, bold black letters read, "Obituary." The woman looked so young. How could someone like her already be gone? Fenna's pity didn't last long. She had more pressing concerns. If she didn't hurry back with enough bread to prepare dinner, Paul would surely lash out again. At sixteen, Fenna was married to a man ten years older. "Hey, Fenna, don't go telling people your husband hits you. You've got it good," Sanger, the baker, said with a smirk as he handed her the bread. The air in the shop was heavy with the sour, yeasty scent of fermenting dough. "At least he's putting a roof over your head, right?" 'There was a time I'd snap back about how he gambled away my dowry,' she thought. But those days were behind her. Now, she just stared blankly. Sanger's wife stood silently by the counter, her smile faint. Fenna had already noticed the purplish bruise under the woman's left eye—something that hadn't been there yesterday. Like most men in their neighborhood, Sanger wasn't shy about leaving his mark. Paul wasn't like Sanger. He preferred to keep his violence hidden. He hit Fenna where no one could see—her stomach, her thighs, her chest. She had learned to avoid provoking him. Over the past six months, she'd managed to escape with nothing worse than a few kicks to the gut. 'That hardly counts as being beaten,' she reasoned. After all, Paul had become more discreet since the time she confided in a neighbor. Image mattered to him. He fancied himself the king of their little street, though in Fenna's eyes, he was nothing more than a petty thug. 'If my parents were still alive, they never would've let me marry someone like him,' she thought bitterly. She walked briskly, lifting the hem of her faded blue dress to avoid the muddy puddles in her path. On her way back, a passerby called out, "Hey, did Paul head to the city for work again?" She forced a small, tight smile. The gray walls of the Ravenshire post office loomed ahead, the skyline of the city just visible through the low-hanging clouds. This small town on the outskirts of Ravenshire felt like a different world from the towering skyscrapers downtown. But the city might as well have been on another planet—it was far beyond Fenna's reach. She paused at the newsstand, drawn back to the magazine she'd spotted earlier. It was a poorly printed, second-rate publication. Her eyes lingered on the photo of the pale woman beneath the bold headline. Just below the photograph, a line of text caught her eye, "A woman must have a room of her own." Something about that sentence hit her like a punch to the chest. She couldn't help but step closer and reach for the magazine. But her hand was covered in crumbs, so she quickly pulled it back. She felt as though those words were like one of Paul's exaggerated stories about gang shootings in Ravenshire's downtown. It struck her heart, a jolt she couldn't ignore. 'I want a room of my own,' she thought, the words reverberating in her mind. It was this yearning that had driven her to marry Paul in the first place. She had been naive enough to believe in his promises. She had handed over every cent of her savings, buying secondhand furniture and cheap wood paneling to turn their house into a home. Two months after their wedding, she'd learned the truth—the house wasn't even his. It was a rental. She'd been duped. She had spent her money decorating someone else's property, and what little she had left, Paul had gambled away. All because of Paul's lies. All because of his bloated ego. All because the law gave him control over everything she had ever worked for. When she'd finally exploded in anger, he'd silenced her with a punch, hammering home one brutal truth—her money, her choices, her life belonged to him. Since that day, her world had felt foggy and gray, as though she were a ghost, drifting through her own existence. But today, that single sentence had pierced through the haze. "A woman must have a room of her own." Fenna clutched her bread basket and hurried home, slamming the door behind her. She leaned against it, as though she could shut out the clarity of her thoughts, lock it away outside. She sat on the small stool in the dimly lit kitchen, peeling potatoes with mechanical precision. She used the peels to scrub Paul's scuffed leather boots, working until they gleamed. Anything to avoid another beating. 'I was so stupid. If only I'd kept my money, focused on my own future instead of chasing some ridiculous dream of a home with him. Ten years, twenty years of hard work—that would've been enough to get a place of my own,' she thought bitterly. When the boots were polished, she washed her hands and carried the bread into the kitchen. Half of it was bought with cash, and the other half, credit. Sanger might have been condescending, but he still allowed her to buy on credit—probably because he believed Paul had a steady job in the city. According to Paul, he worked at a downtown bar, collecting protection money for a gang. "Tell your husband we're friends," Sanger had said. "Of course," she always replied with a polite nod. She'd never tell him the truth—that Paul was nothing. He wasn't part of any gang. He wasn't collecting protection money in some shadowy bar. Paul was just a violent, worthless man. But Fenna had stopped agonizing over her choices. It wasn't her fault. She'd been sixteen, vulnerable, and inexperienced when she married him. Two years of marriage had taught her one thing—the blame wasn't hers to bear. And now, after two years of waiting, she was finally ready. Tonight, she would act.