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The Mafia Don Killed His Pregnant Wife for His First Love

Tue, 29 Sep 2026 01:51:08 +0800

The Moretti name controlled half the waterfront, three unions, a chain of clubs, and enough men with sworn loyalty to make police patrols slow down at the edge of its territory. Inside that world, Dominic Moretti's word carried the force of law.

Dominic Moretti's first love, Bianca Falcone, had thrown herself from a rooftop in a fit of despair.

In a fit of rage, Dominic dragged his eight-months-pregnant wife, Adriana, to an abandoned amusement park on the dead edge of Moretti territory and strapped her into the seat of the old water tower ride. His men stood by, made men with faces carved from stone, saying nothing as they bound her wrists and ankles to the cold metal.

"If you hadn't provoked Bianca, would she have broken and jumped?"

Terrified of heights, Adriana clutched at the restraints, her swollen belly making it hard to breathe. She cradled her ruined right hand against it out of old habit, fingers curling to hide the scar. Tears streamed down her face as she forced out an apology she did not owe him, her voice cracking as she begged, "Dominic, please... let me go. I promised. I swore on the blood. I'd never appear in front of Bianca again."

But her husband only looked at her with chilling indifference. Two fingers rested against his signet ring, and they did not move.

"Adriana, for the sake of the child, I won't cast you out." His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it only made the next words colder.

"But the pain you've caused Bianca, I want you to pay it back a hundred. No. A thousand times over."

Dominic gave the order to set the ride running without stop for an hour, then turned and walked away without a backward glance. The made men parted for him without being told. Men who had taken the oath did not make a Don ask twice.

The machinery groaned to life, the seat jerking beneath her as the tower rose higher and higher into the dark. She fought against the restraints, screaming until her throat felt raw. Every time the ride plunged, her stomach flipped, the terror so intense she thought she might lose consciousness.

Then, on one brutal drop, pain ripped through her body, sharp, hot and unstoppable. A rush of fluid gushed between her legs, soaking her dress and the seat beneath her.

The next day, Dominic finally remembered that she was still out there.

"Adriana, Bianca is fine now," he said, his voice devoid of concern. "As long as you kneel and beg her pardon, I'll let you down."

What he didn't know, what none of them knew, was that the platform had already been drenched in blood for hours. Her baby had been torn from her body somewhere between the sky and the earth, reduced to nothing but mangled flesh and silence.

——

"Dr. Greco reached me this morning. That woman is skipping her checkups. What game is she playing to pull my eyes back to her now?"

Dominic frowned, a trace of disgust flashing through his dark eyes as he swirled the wine he had not touched.

Beside him, Enzo, the old consigliere who had kept the Moretti books, secrets, favors, and blood debts since Dominic's father wore the ring, turned pale. He pressed a folded handkerchief flat against his palm and smoothed it once before he spoke, his voice trembling. "Don Moretti, Donna Adriana still hasn't been brought down. And she's terribly afraid of heights. She won't set foot on the second-floor balcony. Now that she's so far along, could... could something have gone wrong?"

Dominic's expression froze for a split second before he frowned again, doubt flickering across his face. "Really. Adriana's afraid of heights?"

Before Enzo could finish confirming it, Dominic waved a dismissive hand. "It's a rusted carnival ride inside my own territory, not an enemy rooftop. Let her be scared. Maybe fear will teach her what rank, blood, and omertà apparently could not—and she'll stop reaching for Bianca."

Enzo lowered his head and did not dare say another word.

The soldier assigned to the Don's person, however, could not hold his tongue any longer. "Don Moretti, at first the Donna was screaming. But then she went completely silent. And she carries your child. Your own blood. Shouldn't you at least send someone to look?"

Dominic's expression shifted slightly, the brief flicker of realization swallowed at once by scorn.

"I knew it. Even the fear of heights was theater. If she were truly that terrified, how does a woman go quiet all on her own? Adriana is as false as ever. Since she wants to put on a show, let her stay up there till morning. Tomorrow I'll bring her to kneel before Bianca and beg pardon. Only then is this debt settled."

With that he waved his hand, cutting off any further word, and crossed the floor toward the bedroom. No made man in the room moved to stop him. Under a Don's roof, an objection to an order could be heard as an objection to his authority, and every soldier there knew how quickly that kind of mistake became a blood debt.

On his bed, Bianca lay half-bare beneath the soft sheets, her delicate shoulders exposed to the dim light. Dominic's gaze darkened as he approached, his throat working with want. Without a word, he leaned down and captured her lips in a deep kiss.

Bianca whimpered softly, her fingers pressing weakly against his chest before she opened her eyes. "Dominic... we're in your room. If Adriana finds out, she'll be hurt."

Her voice trembled just enough to sound pitiful. Her tears came a half-second too fast, and her eyes flicked sideways to catch his face before the crying fully landed. "And what I did before... Dominic, I only did it because I love you too much. I thought if I were gone, Adriana would stop fighting you over me. I never wanted you to punish her for my sake. Should I go to her and beg her pardon myself?"

She bit her lip, looking heartbreakingly torn.

Sure enough, at the sight of her like this, Dominic's want and his fury braided together. His large hands moved to roughly knead her soft chest, his breath growing heavier as he flipped her beneath him with ease.

"Bianca, you're too soft-hearted. If it weren't for you, I'd have died back then. Even your fear of heights came from pulling me out of it. And to think Adriana told a woman as gentle as you to go throw herself off a roof. It makes my chest ache."

His grip tightened, possessive, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "If she ever does it again, even carrying my child, she pays for it with her life."

Inside the private rooms of the Moretti compound—rooms guarded by men who had sworn blood oaths to Dominic—he bent over Bianca and tenderly kissed the faint scratches left by her fall. His gaze, the one that made made men lower their eyes across a sit-down, softened now with pain, as if the mere sight of her injuries broke him. On their bed, the bed that had been Adriana's as the Donna of the Moretti Family, the two of them indulged in passion, their bodies entwined beneath the sheets.

Above them, the wedding portrait swayed slightly with the motion, the blood-sealed marriage alliance between Bellucci and Moretti hanging crooked on the wall. Adriana's gaze fixed on the photograph, on the woman she used to be, the one who once gazed at Dominic with all the love in the world. In return, his face, even in that captured moment, was indifferent.

That was when Adriana realized that even a soul could shed tears.

At least Dominic could rest easy now. Adriana would never come between them again.

She was already dead.

When Dominic first came for her, she was so terrified she tried to run. Her swollen, eight-months-pregnant belly made it nearly impossible, but she still stumbled forward, desperate. He stood there watching, his arms folded, the way he stood over men who owed the Family blood, as she ran aimlessly like a cornered animal. In the end, it was useless. His soldiers easily caught her and dragged her back.

Losing patience, Dominic forced her onto the cold seat of the water tower ride. His hands pinned her down until the thick straps and ropes bound her limbs in place. She screamed and pleaded, her voice cracking as the ride began to lift her higher and higher into the sky.

She was still screaming when she felt a hot gush of liquid flow down her legs. Her water had broken. She sobbed, gasping for breath, begging him, begging her husband, to save their child.

For a moment, just one fleeting moment, she saw hesitation flicker in his eyes. But before hope could bloom, the soft voice beside him spoke up.

Bianca leaned into his side, her face pale and pitiful. "I thought Adriana's due date wasn't until next week? But... She does look scared. She even wet herself before the ride went up... Maybe we should just let it go. I'm fine now anyway." Her eyes flicked sideways to him, gauging, before the tremble reached her lips.

That was all it took. In the next breath, Dominic's expression twisted with disgust.

"Adriana! You're vile. Using our child just to win my sympathy? Stay up there and think about what you've done!"

A hundred yards above the ground, the wind howled, cutting through her thin dress like a blade. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, but the pain twisting in her abdomen was even worse.

The baby was coming.

She thrashed against the ropes, the fibers cutting into her wrists until layers of skin peeled away. Blood dripped down her arms, but she didn't stop. Her fingers clawed desperately at the knots until, somehow, they began to loosen. Even her ruined right hand, the one crushed years ago pulling him from death, clawed at the rope as if it still owed him something.

The third time the ride shot upward, she gathered every last ounce of strength she had left. And that's when she heard it, a fragile, kitten-like cry.

Her baby was born, right there in the sky.

She was too weak to hold it, too broken to even see if it was a boy or a girl. Before she could reach out, the ride jolted violently. The tower had reached its peak again.

The next second, it plunged.

The tiny, fragile body was ripped from her arms. Her baby, so small, so helpless, slammed into the unforgiving ground below.

She reached for it, screaming until her throat gave out, but her shredded hands couldn't catch hold. All she could do was watch as that perfect little life was reduced to nothing but blood and flesh on the cold concrete.

Her own blood followed, painting the air crimson, a midsummer snowfall of death.

In that final, agonized scream, her breath gave out.

And where was Dominic?

He was nowhere near Adriana. Instead, he'd summoned the finest physicians money could buy off the books, not for her, not for their child, but for Bianca. All because he didn't want a shallow scratch on her arm to leave a scar.

He brought her fresh roses, carefully selected from a florist who imported them from halfway across the world. He even secured a one-of-a-kind designer necklace, placing it gently in her hands to soothe her fragile nerves.

When one of the Family’s made men tried to bring him word of what had happened to her, Dominic cut them off without hesitation.

"Even if she's dead, she brought it upon herself," he said, without a trace of emotion.

"In two days, it'll be her due date. I'll bring Adriana over to apologize to you," Dominic said, his fingers lazily stroking Bianca's hair as she curled up in his lap.

Bianca traced light circles on his chest with her delicate fingers, her head resting softly against him.

"Maybe we should just forget it," she whispered, her voice soft and filled with guilt. "I believe Adriana didn't mean to do it. In the end, it's my fault. I shouldn't have come back. But... I just wanted to be by your side. I never wanted to cause trouble between you two."

Dominic caught her wandering hand, his voice unbearably tender.

"Bianca, you've saved my life. Just for that, I'll protect you until the day I die."

He gently brushed her hair back, his gaze darkening with affection. "Adriana's my wife. She should have embraced you with me. But instead, she kept targeting you, forcing you to the edge."

Something hardened beneath the softness of his words, the quiet menace that made a room go still when the Don entered it. "I don't even want to imagine... if my men hadn't cut you down in time, I could've lost you forever. I would never have forgiven myself."

Hearing Dominic's words, a flicker of unease crossed Bianca's delicate face. She shrank her neck slightly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she fell silent.

Bitterness welled inside Adriana, familiar enough now to feel almost like an old companion. Half a year ago, Bianca had suddenly returned after years spent somewhere across the water. Dominic told Adriana she was all alone, with nowhere to go, no Family left to answer for her. Without even a word to her, he brought her inside the walls of the Moretti compound, past men who lowered their eyes when she passed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

At first, Adriana did not object. In their world, a woman accepted beneath a Don's protection became untouchable inside his gates; insulting her meant insulting the protection itself. Adriana made sure Bianca had a place at Sunday dinner, a guarded car when she left the compound, and the courtesy owed to a guest sheltered by the Moretti name. She wanted to be gracious. She wanted to be the Donna the Family expected beside its Don.

Until the night everything changed. Bianca lifted a glass of red wine, poured it over herself, then dropped to her knees on the marble in front of Adriana, trembling and pleading for mercy. Her voice was so soft, so pitiful, that any soldier standing at the door would have sworn Adriana had been tormenting her for days.

From that moment on, the way Dominic looked at her shifted. That night, he didn't even give her a chance to explain. His fury came without a raised voice, which in a man like him was worse than any shout, and before she understood what was happening, she was dragged to the attic above the old wing and locked inside. He left her there, hungry and freezing, for three full days. When he finally came back, his voice was colder than she'd ever heard it.

"Adriana, you've really disappointed me," he said, his gaze filled with disgust. "You have no idea what Bianca means to me. If you dare lay a hand on her again, wife or not, I'll make you pay the debt in full."

After that, incidents like that kept happening—small, carefully staged moments where Bianca was the victim and Adriana was the cruel villain. Each one chipped away at Dominic's patience, until his eyes held nothing but icy contempt whenever he looked at Adriana.

Adriana had planned to endure it, at least until the baby was born. Once their child arrived safely, she was going to ask him to end the union and slip away quietly. But before she could, Bianca threw herself from a rooftop.

The reason for it? Hateful messages and vicious voice recordings—supposedly from her.

The words were brutal, cruel enough to drive anyone to the edge. But they were not Adriana's. No matter how desperately she pleaded, Dominic did not believe her. All he could see was Bianca's pale, trembling form lying in a hospital bed, her tears falling one after another. His heart ached so much for her, his eyes turned red with rage.

Even with their baby almost ready to be born, his only thought was avenging his beloved.

"Don Moretti... the Donna, she... She seems... You should go see for yourself."

Dominic's fingers froze around the pen in his hand. His brow furrowed, his expression a mix of irritation and indifference. "She's still throwing a tantrum after all this time?"

The young soldier hesitated, his hands nervously clasped together. After several seconds of silence, he finally forced it out. "No, sir... It's not that. It's just... the Donna, she seems to have stopped breathing."

Dominic's large hands, the ones that had been tenderly holding Bianca only moments ago, stiffened. For a moment there was silence—too long to be casual, too short to mean anything real. Then a cold, careless laugh escaped his throat.

"She's really going that far to get out of an apology? Playing dead, just to avoid facing Bianca?"

His voice sharpened. "Tell her—even if she's dying, she apologizes first. If she refuses, don't let her say I didn't warn her."

The young soldier's forehead glistened with sweat. He wanted to say something more, but the fury on Dominic's face nailed the words in his throat. In the end, all he could do was back away, quiet as a man leaving a wake.

In Dominic's arms, Bianca tilted her head, her innocent eyes wide with concern. A tear slipped free almost before the worry finished crossing her face, and her gaze flicked once to the side, checking, before it fell.

"Dominic, maybe you should let it go," she whispered. "Even if Adriana doesn't like me and makes things hard, she's still your wife. As long as I can stay at your side, I can bear it."

Dominic's arm tightened around her slender waist, pulling her closer, the gesture of a man marking what was his.

"Bianca, you don't need to fear that petty woman. Adriana's not even worth your concern." His voice softened into something almost gentle. "This time, I'll see that she learns her lesson. Only then will she understand her place."

"But..."

"No buts. Just trust me."

A teardrop landed on the back of her hand, cold and weightless, yet cutting deeper than any blade. That was when she realized—she was already crying.

So even souls can feel pain.

Dominic said nothing more after that, but for the rest of the afternoon his mind was elsewhere. His fingers drummed restlessly against the desk, and every few minutes his eyes flicked toward the door. By the time an hour had passed, he had glanced over more than ten times.

Finally, with a frustrated breath, he shut his laptop with a snap. He dragged a hand through his hair, then forced a gentle smile onto his face and stroked Bianca's hair.

"I don't know what game Adriana's playing this time," he said softly, "but I'll go drag her back to apologize myself."

At the gates of the abandoned amusement grounds, Dominic's long strides carried him forward, impatience radiating off him like heat. Even from a distance, his sharp gaze locked onto the old water tower ride.

Its frame gleamed coldly in the sunlight—but the ground beneath it was soaked in red.

The abandoned amusement grounds sat on property the Morettis had used for years as neutral dead space—too worthless for development, too private for outsiders, and far enough from the city that screams disappeared into rust and weeds.

The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint scent of rust and damp earth beneath the rotted struts of the water tower. Dominic raised a hand to cover his nose, his expression twisted in discomfort.

"What the hell is that smell? What is Adriana pulling this time?" His voice was impatient, as if all of this were nothing more than another one of her childish acts of defiance.

One of Dominic's soldiers stood to the side, forehead beaded with sweat. His hands clenched at his sides, but his voice remained low. "Padrone... perhaps you should see for yourself."

With a stiff motion, the man stepped aside, revealing the two shapes lying side by side on the bloodstained ground. Both were covered with white cloth. One larger. One heartbreakingly small.

Dominic's hands hovered uncertainly between the two. His fingers curled and uncurled, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. His brows furrowed, confusion moving through his usually cold eyes.

She clutched her chest, though there was no heartbeat there anymore, only the hollow ache of something long gone. She knew what was about to happen and the knowledge was suffocating. Still, she couldn't look away.

After what felt like an eternity, Dominic finally reached toward the smaller bundle. His fingers trembled slightly as he pinched the edge of the cloth, slowly lifting it.

A sharp, high-pitched scream cut through the air before he could see anything.

"Dominic! What are you doing? You're not actually going to touch that, are you? That's some stray animal's carcass!"

Bianca's shrill voice rang out as she stumbled toward him, her body trembling as she threw herself into his arms. Her face pressed into his chest, her small hands clutching at his shirt. Her tears came a half-second too fast, and her eyes flicked sideways to catch his face before the crying fully landed.

Dominic's body stiffened under her touch, but her words seemed to flip a switch in his mind. His expression darkened, disgust flashing across his face. Without another thought, his leg shot out, kicking the small bundle aside.

The tiny body rolled limply across the pavement, the once-pure white cloth unraveling just slightly, exposing a flash of soft, fragile skin.

"Bring the dogs," Dominic said, his voice cold and sharp. "Let them deal with it."

The order was carried out instantly. No man of the Family questioned it. Strays, drawn in by the scent of blood and flesh, swarmed the ground within seconds. Their teeth tore into the small corpse without hesitation, their low growls blending with the wet, sickening sounds of ripping flesh.

She screamed, the sound tearing out of her like a wounded animal. She lunged forward, trying to claw at Dominic, trying to push the dogs away, trying to hold what was left of her baby. But her hands passed straight through everything.

She couldn't touch anything. She couldn't stop any of it.

But the pain, oh, the pain was real. It burned and twisted inside her, a thousand times worse than the agony of childbirth.

What had she done wrong? What had her child done wrong?

The dogs didn't stop until there was nothing left but scraps of cloth and dark, wet patches on the ground. As the last of the flesh disappeared, Adriana caught a glimpse of Bianca, standing slightly apart from Dominic. A faint smile curled at the corners of her lips, a sinister gleam flashing in her eyes before she quickly lowered her gaze.

"Enough with these games!" Dominic's furious roar broke the silence. "Where is Adriana? Where the hell is she hiding?" His fists clenched at his sides, veins bulging under his skin. "She drove Bianca off a roof and now she thinks she can frighten her with a dead animal? How did I never see what Adriana truly is?"

He turned, voice dripping with contempt. "Adriana! Didn't you love that baby more than anything? If you don't crawl out right now, I swear on the blood of this Family, once the real child is born, I'll cast you out on the spot. And don't even dream you'll keep it. You'll never lay eyes on that child again."

She collapsed onto the ground, trembling with rage and heartbreak, her silent laughter mixing with tears she could no longer wipe away.

Adriana's parents were gone. Dominic, the man she had once trusted with her whole heart, had betrayed her without hesitation for Bianca. The only thing Adriana had left was her baby. And now, that child, their child, had been torn apart by dogs, thrown away like trash, and the man who fathered that child had stood by and watched.

Not even a body remained.

She swore, from the depths of whatever was left of her soul, that Dominic would rot in hell for this.

His voice rose again, loud and furious, demanding that she show herself. But there was no one left to answer him.

Finally, the soldier, pale and trembling, forced himself to step forward. His hands shook as he reached down, slowly lifting the white cloth covering the larger form. His voice wavered.

“Don Moretti... the Donna is right here. And your child... you just fed your child to the strays.”

My Boyfriend Fed Me Rotten Food for Her. So I Exposed Them Both

Tue, 29 Sep 2026 01:32:38 +0800

I have severe anorexia.

To get me to eat more, my boyfriend built a private food-delivery app just for me.

He gave every dish its own name, and he made every single one himself.

He even promised every order would arrive within ten minutes.

But the food that showed up was always either spoiled or undercooked.

To keep from disappointing him, I forced myself to eat every bite, no matter how sick it made me feel.

What I couldn't understand was that every time I placed an order, my roommate received the exact same dish.

Except hers looked, smelled, and tasted like actual food.

She said there was a fan who could only eat while watching her livestream, so he cooked for her every day, putting his heart and soul into every meal.

I chalked it up to coincidence.

Until one day I came back to campus early and overheard my roommate on a livestream call.

"You make me all this gorgeous food every day, so why are you feeding your girlfriend slop?"

My boyfriend's voice came through, clear as day.

"Eating with her is like watching someone get hanged. Every time we sit down together, I end up eating two fewer bowls of rice at the cafeteria."

"I'd rather watch you eat. You enjoy it, and it makes me happy."

That's when it hit me—the fan behind all those carefully made meals was my boyfriend of ten years.

She got his best. I got the scraps and the failed attempts.

My hand froze mid-knock.

I stood there for a long moment before slowly lowering my hand.

One was called Goodbye Beef Pasta.

The other was called The Last Course.

……

"Your order is being prepared. Please be patient, my queen!"

The familiar notification chime sounded.

But I knew, without a doubt, that something had changed.

I pushed the door open and walked into the dorm.

My roommate, Celeste, didn't show the slightest hint of panic.

She calmly flipped her phone face-down on the desk.

When she caught me staring at it, she shrugged and smiled.

"You know. That fan who loves watching me eat."

I said nothing and sat back down on my bed.

Celeste plugged in her earbuds, and her syrupy voice kept drifting over.

"Love me or hate me, you'll have to wait in line. But if you're buying me dinner, you get to cut ahead."

"Stop it, I've already gained two pounds because you keep feeding me."

"You'll like me even chubbier. You said so yourself, no take-backs!"

It was a long time before she finally cooed her goodbyes to whoever was on the other end.

The instant her call ended, my phone started ringing.

His name flashed across my screen: Ezra

I bit down on my lip and answered.

"Babe, why didn't you tell me you were coming back early?"

"I'm rushing to finish the order you placed. Just wait for your darling to finish making it."

Twenty minutes later, a knock came at the dorm door.

Ezra stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath, damp strands of hair falling across his forehead as he handed me a pink lunch box printed with cartoon characters.

"Why'd you order these two? Did I do something to upset you?"

I looked away from his earnest expression.

"Never had them. Just wanted to try."

Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.

"Babe, whatever you want to eat—no matter what it is or how hard it is to find—I'll make it for you."

He opened the box for me, set the straw in, laid out the chopsticks, and only then, reluctantly, did he leave.

The whole time, he didn't glance at Celeste once.

It was as if they were complete strangers.

Inside the first box was Goodbye Beef Pasta.

A small piece of grilled beef and an egg, set at opposite ends of the container.

Except the beef was charred black, and the edges of the egg looked like burnt coal, while the inside wasn't even cooked through.

The other dish was The Last Course.

The container was completely empty.

I couldn't help but laugh.

Celeste leaned in, unable to hide her glee.

"Is that even something a person could eat?"

"By my count, my fan should be sending my dinner over about now."

There was another knock at the door.

The delivery driver handed Celeste a beautifully packaged meal.

She carefully opened it to reveal two dishes that looked, smelled, and tasted exquisite.

She propped up her phone right away and went live.

I opened my own phone and joined her livestream for the first time.

A viewer named Bridgie was flooding the screen with gift after gift.

Bridgie. That was my nickname.

It was also Ezra's online handle across every platform.

My eyes stung. I forced the tears back, picked up the dish called "A Clean Break," and put it in my mouth.

A sharp, searing pain shot through me.

I dropped the chopsticks instinctively and grabbed a mirror.

Blood was already trickling from the corner of my mouth.

I opened my mouth wider and saw that the inside was a bloody mess, the flesh torn open.

I spat out a mouthful of bloody foam.

Hidden in it was a small shard of glass.

"Bridget, are you okay?!"

Celeste cried out, though she didn't even come over to check on me.

I ignored her. I took out the iodine and cleaned the wound, my brow furrowing as I worked.

Then I broke apart the fried egg and found it filled with countless tiny shards of glass.

I let out a bitter laugh and snapped a photo for Ezra.

"What's this supposed to mean?"

He didn't reply.

But at that very moment, over in Celeste's livestream, Ezra spoke up.

"Celeste, didn't you say a little glass wouldn't be noticeable when she ate it?"

"How did Bridget get hurt that badly?"

Celeste saw the comment. Her face fell, and she looked at the screen with a wounded expression.

"I read about it online too. Most people wouldn't even notice. Are you seriously going to blame me for it?"

She pushed the food aside.

"I'm sorry, everyone. I'm feeling a little down. I don't think I can eat anymore."

Ezra was silent for a few seconds.

Then an even more expensive virtual gift popped up on the screen.

He said,

"I'm not blaming you, Celeste. As long as you eat well, I'll do anything for you."

Those were the same words he'd said to me countless times.

I lowered my eyes and dumped the rest of the food into the trash.

The wound in my mouth began to seep blood again.

It stung with a dull ache.

That same night, Ezra took me to the hospital.

We stood facing each other in the hospital corridor.

He hung his head, guilt written all over his face.

"Babe, I really didn't mean it. I had no idea shards from that glass bottle would end up in the fried egg. Hit me. Go ahead, hit me."

He grabbed my hand and tried to pull it toward his own face.

I pulled my hand back. My voice was flat.

"It's fine."

Ezra's expression relaxed slightly.

It was already late. The corridor was nearly deserted, with only the nurses on duty nearby.

He led me to a bench and sat me down, gently applying medicine to the wound.

The concern in his eyes wasn't something he could fake.

Something in me softened. I was just about to ask him what all of this was really for.

His phone rang.

At once, Ezra's expression changed.

"Bridgie, one of my buddies had too much to drink. I have to go take care of him."

"Do you really have to go?"

I murmured.

"I really do."

His expression tightened. He set the medicine down and strode away without so much as a goodbye.

And at that very moment, a notification popped up on my phone.

Celeste had posted a photo from a convenience store.

【One in the morning, and I just happened to mention I was craving a Marc set meal, and a certain someone promised me he'd be there in three minutes.】

I stood up and threw the medicine Ezra had bought into the trash.

One in the morning. I didn't want to waste money on a cab, so I walked back to the dorm from the hospital alone.

Maybe out of guilt, Ezra asked me to have breakfast with him.

We rarely ate breakfast together.

I used to think our schedules just never lined up.

It wasn't until that day that I learned the truth. He'd told Celeste that eating breakfast with me, watching me struggle to swallow every bite, made him lose his appetite for the rest of the day.

Ezra had bought a whole spread of breakfast food.

All I'd asked for was a bowl of plain rice porridge.

Stirring the porridge with my spoon, I asked him,

"Do you still remember why I developed anorexia?"

He froze for a second.

Clearly, he'd forgotten.

"I was adopted. My adoptive parents kept me half-starved for years. But on my 18th birthday, they prepared a whole table full of my favorite dishes."

"I ate three bowls of rice and was so full I could barely move. When I went to get some water, I overheard them talking. They were planning to marry me off to a widower who lived on the outskirts of the village. He said I was too skinny, so they wanted to fatten me up before sending me over."

"I threw up for three days and three nights. After that, even the thought of food was enough to send me into a panic, with my heart pounding uncontrollably."

Ezra took my hand and held it firmly.

"You've got me now. Don't be afraid."

I laughed softly.

"I got away. I even made it to college. Every month I get by on part-time work and financial aid. I'm not afraid anymore. I'm not afraid of anything."

But the moment I finished speaking, Ezra's hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

I didn't understand why he'd been so tense until evening study hall that night.

It was the day the school released its list of financial aid recipients, and the class president handed out the list to everyone.

I scanned it over and over. I couldn't find my name.

What I found instead was Celeste's.

As far as I knew, her family was well-off.

She'd gotten her start as a mukbang streamer by filming herself eating salmon at upscale restaurants.

While I sat there confused, a student government staffer pushed open the classroom door and walked in.

"Who's Bridget?"

I raised my hand.

Then he pulled out a document.

"Someone has reported that you falsified your financial circumstances. Your aid is hereby revoked, and you're required to repay all the financial aid you've received over the years."

For a moment, my mind went blank.

The whole class turned to stare at me, suspicion written all over their faces.

I licked my dry lips.

"Who reported me?"

The staffer answered without hesitation.

"Ezra."

Heat rushed to my face.

The classroom erupted.

"Even her own boyfriend reported her. Looks like it must be true."

"Never would've guessed she was that kind of person."

"Faking poverty to get financial aid? Wow, Bridget, you've really got some nerve."

I looked at Ezra. He avoided my eyes.

I bit down hard on my lip, my face flushed with humiliation.

In that moment, I forgot all about dignity and pride.

All I knew was that I couldn't afford to lose my $3,000-a-semester financial aid.

I forced my voice to stay steady.

"I'm an orphan. I worked odd jobs and saved up for tuition whenever I could. If you don't believe me, ask the restaurant owner right outside the school gate."

Doubt flickered across their faces.

That was when Celeste spoke up in her soft, sweet voice.

"Bridget, stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about. Everybody knows you eat expensive food every day until you're sick of it."

She posted a few photos.

There I was, holding a neatly packed lunch box, my expression listless.

Inside was expensive gourmet food.

It was the food delivery Ezra had ordered for me because he had no time to cook.

"My boyfriend bought that for me!"

I argued.

But Ezra suddenly stood up.

"I didn't buy it."

He strode over and stopped in front of me.

"Bridget, you don't need this money. It should go to someone who truly needs it."

I stared at him as if I'd never known this man at all.

The moment I saw Celeste's name on that list, everything suddenly made sense.

I forced a cold smile.

"I don't accept it."

"That's not up to you."

Ezra and the Student Council staffer spoke at the same time.

"We've already made our decision. Bridget, please don't force us to take disciplinary measures."

With contemptuous stares all around me, I lost all strength and slowly sank back into my seat.

Ezra asked me to meet him at the back gate of the school.

I slapped him with all the strength I had.

A clear handprint stood out against his pale face.

"Bridget, it's just $3,000. It's not the end of the world."

"You have me to take care of you. We'll get married after graduation. You don't need to worry about $3,000."

I clenched my teeth, my whole body trembling with rage.

"For Celeste's sake. Right?"

Ezra's pupils contracted.

Then he closed his eyes tightly.

"$3,000 is enough for Celeste to shoot a whole month's worth of campus cafeteria videos. She's not short on money, but with this, she won't have to dip into her own spending money."

"And me?"

It took Ezra a long time to answer.

"Bridget, honestly, I've been good enough to you, haven't I? What other boyfriend would do what I do—cook whatever you want whenever you need it?"

"Don't let a little bit of money come between us after what we've built over all these years."

He turned to leave, then stopped halfway.

"There's nothing between me and Celeste. It's just a streamer-and-fan thing. Don't read into it, and don't ever let me catch you going after her."

With that, he strode off without looking back.

I stood frozen for a long while, then slowly crouched down and wrapped my arms around myself.

A sharp pain shot through my stomach.

My gastritis had flared up again.

Ezra had no idea that $3,000 was all that stood between me and the surgery I needed.

Years of anorexia had left me, young as I was, with severe gastritis.

The doctor said that if I didn't get it treated in time, it could develop into stomach cancer.

To scrape together the money for the operation, I worked nonstop for an entire year, taking one part-time job after another.

The financial aid was what finally made up the difference.

Now the $3,000 was gone, and the surgery was no longer possible.

On top of that, I was nine thousand dollars in debt.

For a moment, a wave of pain tore through my entire body.

I couldn't even tell anymore whether it was my stomach that hurt, or my heart.

The hospital called, asking when I'd come in for the surgery.

I was washing dishes in the cafeteria, my stomach aching all the while, and all I could do was bite down on my lip and force myself to stay conscious.

"Dr. Cobb, I probably can't have the surgery this year. Let me come back next year..."

The doctor let out a helpless sigh.

"You can't keep putting it off."

"I know. But... I really can't come up with the money."

By then, the doctor knew there was nothing he could say to change the situation.

After what happened that day, someone posted the video online.

Before long, everyone was turning on me.

Walking down the street, my classmates couldn't hide the contempt in their eyes.

One part-time job after another let me go, saying they couldn't afford to hire someone with my reputation.

Only Aunt Pat Whitney at the cafeteria seemed to see me for who I really was.

I hung up the phone, wiped the cold sweat beading on my forehead, and went back to the dishes.

Ezra and Celeste walked into the cafeteria together.

They bought several dishes from the food counter and picked a seat by the window.

Celeste ate with her cheeks flushed, and Ezra just watched her, his smile soft and affectionate.

He even reached over to gently wipe a grain of rice from the corner of her mouth.

The two of them both froze for an instant.

I was right there in the back kitchen, not far from them, watching all of it.

By the time she got back to the dorm that night, Celeste was still practically glowing with happiness.

Seeing me sit on the edge of the bed without a word, she leaned in, her voice all sugar and spite.

"I'm not the one who exposed you for falsely claiming financial aid, Bridget. So why are you always giving me that attitude? Here—my number-one fan bought me this mille-feuille. I'll cut you a slice."

"No thanks."

My reply came out flat and cold.

"Tch, don't bother pretending you're too good for it. Look at the state of you now. Everyone's dragging your name through the mud, treating you like a rat in the gutter. I'm the only one who still bothers with you."

She rolled her eyes and turned to go.

In that instant, all the rage I'd swallowed over the past few weeks erupted.

I grabbed a fistful of Celeste's shirt.

"Don't think I don't know what you and Ezra have been scheming behind my back."

"The only reason my name's being dragged through the mud is because of you, isn't it?"

Celeste shrieked, spun around, and slapped me hard across the face.

"You're skinny as a skeleton, and the way you eat is enough to make anyone lose their appetite. No wonder Ezra can't stand you!"

"There was only one aid slot to go around, and my mukbang career was worth a hell of a lot more than you!"

I wasn't about to back down, and I slapped her right back.

But as we grappled, a dull pain suddenly twisted through my stomach.

The gastritis had flared up again.

And this time, it was worse than ever.

All at once, my strength drained away.

Celeste shoved me to the floor and started hitting me.

The other roommates couldn't pull her off, so they just called Ezra.

He got there fast, kicked the dorm door open, and forcefully shoved me out of the way.

Celeste quickly teared up.

"Ezra…"

"Don't say a word."

His eyes brimmed with concern for her.

"Ezra…"

Gritting my teeth, I called his name with everything I had left.

"Take me to the hospital… please…"

Hearing my voice, Ezra shot me a look of disgust.

"Bridget, drop the act. Your roommates already told me you swung first. You had this coming."

With that, he scooped Celeste into his arms and walked out with her without another word.

My fingers slowly loosened around the hem of my shirt.

Just before I lost consciousness, a single tear rolled down my cheek.

My last thought before everything went black was simple— Ezra, I hate you.

The sharp stomach pain radiated through my entire body. The world spun, and everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the snow-white ceiling of a hospital.

I was in the cheapest eight-bed ward, with no one at my side.

I pulled out my phone. Ezra's messages came one after another.

I didn't tap into a single one. Instead, I opened the school forum and started a livestream.

The stream was titled: 【I'm the one behind the whole financial-aid scandal. Yeah, I stole it. So what.】

After I Funded My Daughter-in-Law's Restaurant, I Disowned My Son

Tue, 29 Sep 2026 01:14:07 +0800

After my daughter-in-law, Marcella Abbott, lost her job, I gave her the money she needed to open a restaurant.

To help the place get off the ground, I brought people there to eat almost every day, doing everything I could to support her.

But Marcella always looked cold whenever she saw me, and the portions she served kept getting smaller.

I finally couldn't take it anymore, so I asked her..

"This roast beef is sixty-eight dollars a plate. Why are there only three pieces?"

Marcella snapped.

"Eat it if you want it, or leave if you don't. Better yet, don't come around here at all anymore."

Even if I weren't her mother-in-law, I was still the person who'd funded this restaurant—and I was a paying customer, too. How could she treat me like this?

I was upset too, and I was just about to say something when my son pulled me aside and spoke to me in a low voice.

"Mom, business has been bad lately, and it's got Marcella in a mood. Do it for me, just let it go and don't hold it against her."

I didn't want to cause trouble between the two of them, so I swallowed my anger.

Three days later, there was a high school reunion, and I brought my old classmates over to eat. Before I even made it inside, Marcella blocked my way, her eyes red as she yelled at me.

"Mom, don't you think you've gone a little too far? I've had this restaurant open for three months, and for three months you've been bringing people here to eat and drink without paying. Four hundred thousand dollars in total, and not once have you paid a bill."

"This is a restaurant I opened by taking out a loan against my parents' house. Are you not going to stop until you've eaten it into bankruptcy?"

I froze.

The one million dollars to open this restaurant came from me, every last dollar of it. And I'd paid for every meal, down to the last cent.

So where had the money gone?

……

When the roast beef was set down on our table, all five of us old friends were mortified.

Because just a second earlier, I'd been talking the place up to everyone,

"My daughter-in-law owns this restaurant. The dishes are generous, they taste great, and it's a real bargain."

"Anytime you feel like eating out, come here. I promise you'll be happy with it."

But right now, this plate of roast beef in front of us was priced at sixty-eight dollars, and there were only three pieces on it.

Five of us, and not even enough for everyone to get a bite.

The table went silent for three seconds, and then one of my old classmates spoke up, unable to believe it.

"Susan, did your daughter-in-law mix up our order and accidentally bring us someone else's leftovers?”

I glanced at the roast beef that had just been carried out to the table next to us. A full plate, heaped high with meat.

And ours had three miserable pieces, looking pitiful by comparison.

This plate had been carried out by Marcella herself.

Even though her attitude toward me had been strangely chilly for the past three months, she wouldn't go so far as to treat me like this in front of everyone, would she?

"I'll go ask."

I stood up, carried the plate over to Marcella, and asked her nicely.

"Marcella, this roast beef is sixty-eight dollars a plate. Why are there only three pieces?"

"Did you all bring out the wrong plate?"

Marcella, who'd had her head down sorting through the bills, looked up and gave me a cold glance, then said flatly,

"Nothing wrong with it. That's the portion."

Puzzled, I said,

"Then why does the table next to us have so much?"

"Isn't it all roast beef? How can the portions be so different?"

Marcella's brows immediately drew together, and she said impatiently.

"You really don't know why there's such a difference?"

I couldn't help staring at her in confusion.

I knew?

What was I supposed to know?

Before I could get another word out, Marcella rolled her eyes at me and snapped irritably.

"Eat it if you want it, or leave if you don't. Better yet, don't come around here at all anymore!"

With that, she lowered her head and went back to what she was doing, without giving me another glance.

Seeing her like that, my anger finally boiled over.

Ever since this restaurant opened, Marcella's attitude toward me had gotten worse by the day.

In the very beginning, when I came in to eat, she always greeted me with a smile, and she'd even add extra dishes, worried I wouldn't have enough to eat.

But as the days went by, her smiles disappeared, and she spoke less and less.

And now she was openly treating me differently, even telling me to leave in front of everyone?

This was too much.

Even if I weren't her mother-in-law, I was still the one who'd funded this restaurant.

And for three whole months, I'd paid out of my own pocket every single day to bring all kinds of people in to eat, just to drum up business for my daughter-in-law and help her build a customer base.

I'd poured my time, money, and energy into this place.

And in the end, this was what I got? This was how she treated me?

How was that fair?

I was just about to demand an explanation from my daughter-in-law.

Then my son, who'd been serving customers behind the counter, suddenly rushed over, pulled me aside, and murmured softly.

"Mom, don't be upset."

"Business hasn't been good lately, and Marcella's been under a lot of pressure. She's just been having a hard time."

"Just do it for my sake, okay? Don't hold it against her."

Looking at the strained, helpless expression on my son's face, everything I'd been feeling stuck in my throat.

It wasn't the unfair treatment that bothered me.

What I was afraid of was putting my son in the middle, caught between his mother and his wife.

I didn't want to come between them.

So I let it go.

I pushed down every bit of hurt, forced a smile, and went back to my seat, making excuses for my daughter-in-law.

"I'm so sorry, the place really is busy, so there was a mix-up."

"My daughter-in-law says everyone should order whatever they'd like. Consider it her way of making it up to you all."

As uncomfortable as I felt, I still had to save face for my daughter-in-law in front of everyone.

I couldn't let anyone think she'd been unkind to me, her mother-in-law.

It wouldn't look good for her.

Hearing my explanation, my old friends relaxed and smiled.

"See, I said it had to be a mistake."

"Susan, your daughter-in-law really is a gem. She's so thoughtful and capable."

I nodded with a smile and didn't say anything more.

After everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, I did what I always did. I scanned the restaurant's QR code my son had given me and paid the entire bill myself.

After saying goodbye to my friends, I headed home alone.

The restaurant wasn't far from the house, just a ten-minute walk.

I walked the whole way home, my mind full of the resentment I'd seen on my daughter-in-law's face.

She hadn't always been like this.

Before she opened this restaurant, Marcella was an ordinary office worker.

She worked nine to five, and though the pay wasn't much, she always thought of me.

Every payday, she'd buy me something.

My clothes, my shoes, my skincare—you name it, she'd buy it for me.

Back then, the two of us could talk about anything, and we were as close as a mother and daughter could be.

The whole neighborhood envied me for having such a thoughtful daughter-in-law.

Then her company had layoffs, and she was laid off.

For a while, she job-hunted every day, only to be turned away everywhere she went. It was a serious blow to her confidence.

She grew withdrawn and dejected, shutting herself away at home day and night, not wanting to talk or go out.

Watching her grow more withdrawn by the day broke my heart, and I wanted nothing more than to help her through it.

So I went to my son, hoping he'd have some idea.

He told me that Marcella's biggest dream was to open a restaurant.

She just didn't have the money, so she'd never dared to try.

Hearing that, I didn't hesitate for a second. I transferred my son all the money I'd saved over the years.

"Whatever Marcella wants to do, let her pursue it without worrying about the money."

When the one million dollars landed in his account, my son's eyes turned red.

"Mom, you're so good to Marcella."

"She's going to be thrilled when she finds out."

I waved a hand.

"She's my daughter-in-law. Of course I have to be good to her."

"You tell her to go for it, and not to hold back. Mom's got her back."

Later, the restaurant opened.

That day, my daughter-in-law was so happy she could barely hold back tears, and she said she was going to make something of herself.

Seeing her back on her feet again, I was glad for her from the bottom of my heart.

To support her business, every day I paid out of my own pocket to bring people in to eat.

For one thing, it was to help her build up a customer base.

For another, it was to help bring in more business.

So even when the restaurant ran discounts and promotions, I never took part.

I always paid full price, down to the last cent, and sometimes I even left a little something extra on top.

I didn't care about anything else. I just wanted to support my daughter-in-law's business.

As long as she was happy, I was willing to do whatever it took.

But I never dreamed all I'd get in return were cold looks.

Once the restaurant got on its feet, her attitude toward me got worse by the day.

Not only did she never so much as greet me, but the service got slower, and the portions got smaller and smaller.

I saw it all, and it broke my heart.

More than that, I couldn't understand it.

I honestly couldn't figure out where I'd gone wrong.

How had the daughter-in-law who'd once been as close to me as my own daughter become like this?

I was still thinking about it when I passed a fruit stand.

I'd noticed she'd been staying up late every night, poring over the books and complaining that her eyes were always dry and tired.

I hesitated for a moment before going in and buying some blueberries.

People online said they were good for the eyes.

We were family, after all. Even with the hurt still sitting heavy in my chest, I still wanted the best for her.

Once I got home, I washed the blueberries carefully, one by one, and put them in the fridge.

I figured she could have some when she got home that night, to help with her tired eyes.

But by the next day, not a single blueberry had been touched.

Thinking she hadn't noticed, I made a point of reminding her.

"Marcella, I bought you blueberries to help with your eyes. Remember to eat some."

She just shot me a cold look and said only one thing.

"Save the fake kindness."

And with that, she walked out without even looking back.

Over the next two days, my daughter-in-law's attitude toward me grew colder than ever.

She'd rather go hungry than eat the breakfast I made.

The fruit I bought, she'd let it sit before she'd even touch it.

At home, the moment I sat in the living room, she locked herself in her room, unwilling to spend another second around me.

When I brought people to the restaurant to support her business, she wouldn't so much as give me a decent look, and even went straight to her social media account with some thinly veiled jab.

"Some people just won't quit haunting you. Sickening to look at."

I stared at that post, and thought again of how she'd been deliberately keeping me at arm's length.

My chest felt so tight I could hardly breathe, and I kept looking for a chance to talk things out with her.

But the moment I came near, she'd turn and walk off, never giving me the chance to say a word.

Living under the same roof, having her freeze me out like this day after day, was tearing me apart.

I held it in for days, until finally I couldn't take it anymore, and while my daughter-in-law was in the shower, I went to my son.

"Russ, be straight with your mom. Does Marcella have some kind of problem with me?"

My son looked startled.

"How could that be, Mom? Everybody knows Marcella's always treated you like her own mother."

"You two used to be as close as a real mother and daughter. Don't you remember?"

It was precisely because I remembered.

That I found it so strange.

"But lately she's clearly going out of her way to avoid me, and the way she looks at me, it's like I'm her enemy."

"When I try to talk to her, she can't even be bothered to answer."

My son sighed, and said helplessly.

"Mom, you're really overthinking this."

"The restaurant's still in its early days. Business is slow, everything's a headache, and Marcella spends all day reconciling accounts, ordering supplies, and dealing with customers. She's worn out, inside and out. It's no wonder her temper's short."

"But don't worry. She's been like this with everyone lately. It's not aimed at you. Sometimes I just get in the way at the shop and she snaps at me too."

As he spoke, my son paused, reached out to steady my arm, and tried to reassure me.

"Mom, you're the parent here, so try to be a little more understanding. Don't take it personally when a young woman is under the pressure of starting a business."

"Once we get through this rough patch and the restaurant's on solid footing, I'll have a good talk with her, make sure she apologizes and treats you right from now on."

After hearing my son out, the knot of frustration in my chest loosened considerably.

Young people carry a lot of pressure these days. I understood.

It wasn't as if I needed my daughter-in-law to be smiling at me all the time.

I only hoped that, living under one roof as a family, we could live together peacefully.

"There's no need for an apology."

"I'm just worried about her. Tell Marcella to take things one step at a time and not push herself so hard."

"Whether she earns a lot or a little, her health matters most."

Hearing that, my son smiled and nodded.

"Mom, I knew you'd be the reasonable one."

"Don't worry. I'll be sure to talk some sense into her."

Just then, my daughter-in-law came out of the shower.

Seeing me and my son chatting in the living room, she shot me a cold glance and turned and went straight back to her room, slamming the door behind her.

I looked at the shut door and didn't go over to bother her.

After all, she'd been exhausted for days on end. She needed some quiet time alone.

Better to give her some space.

With that thought, I went back to my room too.

Right then, my phone rang.

It was the class president who had just posted a message in our high school alumni group.

"Old classmates, tomorrow's the day for our once-a-year reunion. Don't anybody forget."

The group came alive in an instant.

"Haven't forgotten, haven't forgotten. I even turned down the senior tour package my son booked for me, just so I could get together with everyone tomorrow."

"A whole year without seeing each other, I've been missing this old crew. I've been looking forward to this reunion."

"Everybody hurry up and confirm the head count. If you've got a good spot for the meal, feel free to recommend it, and we'll pick a place together."

Watching everyone discuss where to eat, an idea struck me at once.

Our alumni group holds a reunion once a year.

Every reunion draws forty or fifty people.

A big order like that would be just the thing to boost business at my daughter-in-law's restaurant and take some of the pressure off her.

With that in mind, I immediately posted in the group.

"My daughter-in-law just opened a restaurant. The food is delicious, and the place is clean.

Let's all get together at her place tomorrow. I'll cover everything."

The moment the message went out, people replied right away.

"Sure thing, Susan. It's your own daughter-in-law's place, we've got to show our support!"

"Then it's settled. Tomorrow we all head to Susan's daughter-in-law's restaurant for the reunion."

"If the food really is good, we'll all be regulars from now on."

Reading the replies, I posted the restaurant's location to the group right away.

At the same time, I started doing the math in my head. This meal for forty or fifty people wouldn't just bring in a good chunk of money for the restaurant.

I could also use the chance to spread the word and turn some of my old classmates into regular customers.

By then Marcella would surely be happy.

The next day at noon, I set off for my daughter-in-law's restaurant with a big, lively group of old classmates, laughing and chatting all the way.

On the way there, my old classmates chatted as they walked, showering me with sincere praise.

"Susan, you really are a wonderful mother-in-law. To look out for your daughter-in-law's business, you'd rather pay out of your own pocket just to book the reunion at her restaurant."

"It's true. You hardly ever see a mother-in-law these days who thinks of her daughter-in-law as genuinely as you do."

"Your daughter-in-law is blessed to have a mother-in-law like you."

Listening to them, warmth spread through my chest.

"My daughter-in-law has always been good to me. She's family, so of course I'll do everything I can to help her."

As I spoke, we arrived at the restaurant door.

But before we could step inside, a figure suddenly came hurrying over.

It was my daughter-in-law.

Her eyes red, she threw herself into the doorway, blocking the entrance, and snapped coldly at me.

"Mom, are you ever going to stop? Why did you bring this whole crowd to my restaurant again?!"

Marcella's sudden blockade and angry outburst brought the laughter and chatter to an abrupt stop.

Everyone stopped in their tracks and turned to look at me, shock written all over their faces.

I froze too, and looked at her, baffled.

"Marcella, what are you doing?"

"I brought everyone to eat here to help your business and take some of the pressure off you."

She let out a cold snort, as if she'd just heard the biggest joke in the world.

"Help my business?"

"Mom, you are so unbelievably two-faced. Do you have any idea how shameless this is?!"

"I've been open three months, and for three months you've brought people here to eat and drink for free. Four hundred thousand dollars total, and you never once picked up the check. And now you stand there and pretend you're helping me with my business?"

"I mortgaged my parents' house to open this place. Are you not going to stop until you've eaten this place into bankruptcy?!"

Hearing that, a shudder ran through me.

"Marcella, what did you just say?"

Pregnant and Hunted by the Monster I Married

Sun, 27 Sep 2026 01:51:08 +0800

The positive pregnancy test in my purse was a beautiful, glowing secret I couldn't wait to share with my husband, Lucas. But first, as a lead gemologist, I had to hand-deliver a ten-million-dollar custom teardrop diamond to an anonymous VIP.

I smoothed down my silk dress, took a deep breath, and rang the penthouse bell.

The heavy mahogany door swung open.

My polite, professional smile instantly froze.

It wasn't a stranger. It was Paula Sinclair. My mentor and closest friend. I hadn't seen her in three years—not since she abruptly retired and moved to Europe, keeping our friendship alive through texts and always dodging any photos of her mysterious, wealthy husband.

Yet here she was. And she was heavily, unmistakably pregnant.

And she was wearing a custom-tailored white dress shirt. My breath hitched painfully. I knew that shirt. It looked exactly like my husband’s favorite dress shirt, right down to the silver threading on the cuff. It hung loosely over her swollen belly.

"Shaina, darling! You made it," Paula purred. She plucked the velvet box from my trembling hand. "Thank you for bringing this personally. I told my husband it was too risky to have a ten-million-dollar anniversary gift delivered by a standard courier."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the silver threading on her sleeve. "Your husband?" I managed to ask, my throat suddenly tight. "In all these years, you never actually told me his name."

"Oh, didn't I?" Paula laughed, a light, dismissive sound. "It's Lucas. My hubby is just so horribly impatient."

Lucas.

The word hit me like a physical blow. The air vanished from my lungs. The shirt. The name.

No, I told myself frantically. Lucas is a common name. It’s a coincidence. You are just being paranoid.

But my heart was pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. I needed to hear my husband's voice. I needed to call him at his office right now, just to prove to myself that I was losing my mind over nothing.

"I... I need to use the restroom," I stammered, blindly pushing past her and reaching into my purse for my phone.

"Down the hall, to the left," Paula called out, completely distracted by the blinding jewels.

I stumbled down the sprawling, opulent hallway, my hands shaking so violently I could barely unlock my phone screen.

I shoved open the first door on the left, desperate to lock myself in, call my Lucas, and splash cold water on my face.

It wasn't a bathroom.

It was a fully equipped medical nursery.

Sterile white walls, beeping heart monitors, and a massive, state-of-the-art medical crib dominated the room.

But what made my blood run absolute ice was the glowing iPad propped up on the changing table.

An active video call was playing.

On the screen was a pale, fragile five-year-old boy in a stark hospital bed. He was crying, his tiny hands clutching a stuffed bear.

"Daddy," the boy whimpered. "When is the baby coming? It hurts."

"Soon, Carl. I promise, buddy," a deep, familiar voice replied from the speaker.

My phone slipped from my numb fingers and hit the carpeted floor.

It was Lucas. My Lucas.

"The incubator is perfectly on track," Lucas continued. "Just a few more months, and you'll have everything you need to get better."

A wave of pure, suffocating nausea washed over me. I backed away from the screen, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream.

I stumbled out of the nursery. As I neared the adjacent study, I noticed the heavy oak door was left slightly ajar.

Voices drifted into the hallway.

"She doesn't suspect a thing," Lucas was saying.

"She better not," another voice snapped.

I froze. My heart stopped beating entirely.

Ethan. My own brother.

"I played my part, Lucas," Ethan hissed, the sound of his voice making my skin crawl. "I forged the marriage certificate perfectly. The state has no record of you two. Now, wipe my slate clean. You promised my underground gambling debts would be erased the moment she got pregnant."

"Your debts are millions, Ethan," Lucas scoffed coldly. "You'll get your clearance when the child is born and the cord blood is harvested. Not a single second before."

I pressed my back against the freezing marble wall, sliding down slightly as the horrifying truth shattered my entire reality.

"Paula is getting anxious," Lucas continued, the sharp clink of a crystal glass echoing through the crack in the door. "We’ve been legally married in Monaco for six years. She’s tired of hiding in this penthouse while I play house with your sister."

"Then hurry it up," Ethan shot back without a single ounce of remorse. "Shaina was the only one with the exact, rare genetic markers to save Carl. You hunted her down. You groomed her. You made her fall in love with you. Just take the stem cells when the baby comes and get rid of her."

"I will," Lucas said smoothly. "Once Carl is cured, Shaina’s usefulness is over."

They didn't want me. They didn't want the innocent child growing inside me.

I was nothing but a walking, breathing organ farm for his real family.

A sacrificial lamb bought and sold by my own brother to cover his pathetic mistakes.

I closed my eyes. The desperate, foolish girl who loved Lucas died right there on the cold marble floor.

When I opened my eyes again, my sorrow had instantly hardened into absolute, lethal rage.

I had to protect my baby. I had to run.

I forced myself to stand. My expensive heels were completely silent on the thick rugs as I crept back down the hallway.

I bypassed the living room, where Paula was still admiring her stolen diamonds in the mirror, completely oblivious to my presence.

The front door was only ten feet away.

I reached out, my trembling fingers wrapping around the cool, brass doorknob.

Before I could turn it, Lucas appeared behind my back.

"Going somewhere, my lovely incubator?"

The voice that had whispered sweet nothings against my bare skin in the dark now sounded like a stranger’s.

"You're not leaving, Shaina," Lucas stated, his tone devoid of any warmth or emotion. "You will remain in this penthouse under twenty-four-seven surveillance. You will eat what we tell you, sleep when we tell you, and you will not take a single step outside until that baby is born and the stem cells are harvested."

"You're a monster," I breathed, my whole body trembling so violently I could barely stand.

I looked past him, my tear-filled eyes locking onto the man standing near the study. "And you... Ethan. How could you do this to me? I'm your sister! I'm your own flesh and blood!"

Instead of looking ashamed, my brother’s face twisted in arrogant annoyance. He marched up to me, jabbing a harsh finger in my face.

"Don't you dare play the victim with me, Shaina," Ethan yelled. "I gave up my entire twenties for you! I raised you after Mom and Dad died! I paid for your food, your clothes, your life! You owe me! This is your duty to this family. You're finally paying me back for everything I sacrificed."

"Paying you back?" I screamed, tears of absolute, soul-crushing betrayal spilling down my cheeks. "By selling me to a psychopath? By forcing me into a fake marriage? We weren't even trying for a baby! I was on the pill! I trusted you!"

Ethan let out a dark, mocking laugh that sent a shiver down my spine.

"You really think you just 'accidentally' got pregnant?" Ethan sneered. "Lucas gave me a strict medical timeline for Carl's treatment. I couldn't leave it to chance. I swapped your birth control pills with sugar pills months ago. You were bred exactly on schedule, little sister."

My stomach violently heaved. The sheer, calculated violation of it all made my knees buckle. I grabbed the edge of the marble console table to keep from collapsing to the floor.

Before I could process the sheer horror of his confession, Paula emerged from the hallway. She walked over to me, her eyes brimming with crocodile tears, and gently gripped my shaking hands.

"Shaina, please, you have to understand," Paula cried. "Do you know how much it broke my heart? I never wanted to share my husband. It was absolute torture watching him kiss you, touch you, pretend to make love to you every single night. But I had to endure it. I had to do it for my son's survival. Any mother would do the same."

She let go of my hands and reached into her designer bag, pulling out a thick stack of legal documents.

She slid them across the glass coffee table, placing a heavy silver pen on top.

"This is a relinquishment of parental rights," Paula said, sniffing delicately as she wiped a fake tear from her cheek. "Sign it. It states that immediately after birth, you surrender all claims to the child. You won't even have to look at it. Once Carl gets his stem cells, Lucas will make sure you are taken care of, and you can disappear."

I stared at the stark white papers. I was physically imprisoned, completely cut off from the outside world, and emotionally battered by the three people I had trusted most in my entire life.

I looked at Ethan’s greedy, expectant smirk. I looked at Paula’s fake, manipulative tears. I looked at Lucas’s cold, demanding glare.

I picked up the silver pen.

And then, I snapped it in half, throwing the jagged pieces directly at Lucas's chest.

"I will never sign that," I hissed, my voice dropping to a lethal, unwavering whisper. I placed my hands protectively over my swollen stomach, a fierce maternal instinct overriding my terror. "I don't care about your forged marriage. But hear me right now: I will die before I let you monsters touch my child. I will destroy this baby myself before I let you harvest it for parts."

The room went dead silent.

Paula’s weeping act vanished instantly. Her eyes narrowed into dark, venomous slits. She realized in that exact moment that I wasn't going to be a compliant victim.

She took a slow step backward, positioning herself right at the edge of the short flight of marble stairs that led down into the sunken living room.

She looked at Lucas, then locked eyes with me, a wicked, calculated smirk flashing across her beautiful face.

Then, Paula intentionally threw herself backward.

She tumbled down the three marble steps with a sickening thud, landing hard on the plush rug below.

"Ahhh!" Paula shrieked in absolute, blood-curdling agony. She curled into a ball, clutching her pregnant stomach and pointing a violently trembling finger directly at me. "Lucas! She pushed me! She tried to kill our baby!"

"Paula!" Lucas roared.

He rushed down the stairs, dropping to his knees beside her. He frantically checked her over as she sobbed hysterically into his chest, playing the victim to absolute perfection.

When Lucas finally looked up at me, his eyes were pitch black with murderous rage.

Before I could even scream, his massive hand wrapped around my throat. He slammed me against the wall, lifting me until my toes barely grazed the floor.

I gasped for air, clawing desperately at his iron grip, my vision spotting with black stars as he choked the life out of me.

"If you have so much energy to hurt my family," Lucas snarled, his breath hot against my face, his voice dripping with pure evil. "Take her to the basement clinic."

Every time the heavy deadbolt clicked, I lunged for the door.

"Please!" I screamed, pounding my fists against the solid oak until my knuckles bruised and bled. "You can't do this! I'm pregnant! Let me out!"

The guards were ghosts, indifferent to my pleas. They stared ahead, faces carved from stone.

One evening, a young maid entered with a tray of food. Her hands trembled, eyes darting to the floor. I saw my opening.

I shoved past her, sending the tray crashing. My bare feet slapped against the cold marble as I sprinted for the foyer. I was so close. The heavy front doors were right there.

A massive hand clamped into my hair, yanking me backward with enough force to snap my neck. I hit the floor hard, gasping for air as the wind was knocked out of my lungs.

"Going somewhere?" the guard sneered, his grip tightening.

During the violent struggle, my wrist slammed against the doorframe. I heard the sickening crack—the face of my smartwatch shattering. As he dragged me back to my prison, my fingers brushed against the broken glass.

I managed to palm a jagged, triangular shard, hiding it deep within the folds of my sleeve. It sliced into my skin, but I welcomed the sting. It was my only weapon.

Weeks passed in a blur of terror. I was seven months pregnant now. I spent my days whispering to my belly, promising my baby that we would survive this.

But outside my door, the frantic pace of the household shifted. I heard the muffled, hysterical sobs of Paula and the sharp, frantic commands of Lucas.

"He's failing!" Paula shrieked through the walls, her voice laced with panic. "The treatments aren't working anymore! Do it now, Lucas! We are losing Carl!"

The deadbolt clicked. The door swung open, and two guards marched in. They grabbed my arms.

"No! Don't touch me!" I thrashed, my heels digging into the floor, but they hauled me out of the room.

They dragged me down the hidden stairwell and into the sterile, blinding light of the underground clinic. The smell of bleach and antiseptic burned my nose, making my stomach churn.

They hoisted me onto a cold steel bed. Thick leather restraints were strapped across my wrists and ankles, buckling me down with ruthless efficiency.

Lucas stood in the corner. His silhouette was a dark omen. The man who had kissed my forehead and promised me forever was gone.

"Lucas, please!" I sobbed, my body trembling as I strained against the straps. The leather bit into my skin, but it was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. "Look at me! Please look at me! Remember us?"

He didn't move.

"I’m only seven months!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face, choking on my own despair. "If you induce me now, the baby won't survive! His tiny lungs aren't ready! He will suffocate! Please, Lucas, I am begging you on my hands and knees in my heart, don't do this to our child! Don't murder our baby for Carl!"

His back remained a wall of impenetrable ice. He didn't even flinch at the sound of my breaking heart. He was completely detached, ready to sacrifice his own unborn child for his brother.

"Do it," he commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Dr. Robert approached the metal tray beside my bed. He drew a heavy dose of medicine into a syringe. It was the poison that would force my body into premature, agonizing labor.

"Just relax, Shaina," the doctor murmured lifelessly. He turned his back for a split second to prep the IV line.

That was my moment.

A primal, maternal fire ignited in my chest, burning away my terror. I twisted my right hand, the leather biting deep into my skin, and nudged the shard of glass from my sleeve.

I sliced into my palm, drawing a warm line of blood, but I didn't care. I gripped the glass and sawed frantically at the thick leather binding my wrist.

Snap.

My right arm broke free.

Dr. Robert turned around, the needle gleaming under the harsh lights. His eyes widened in shock. "Hey! Grab her—"

I didn't think. I lunged.

With a guttural scream, I drove the jagged glass into his forearm with every ounce of my remaining strength.

He roared in pain, dropping the syringe. It shattered against the tile, the clear liquid pooling on the floor. He stumbled back, clutching his bleeding arm, crashing into the instrument tray with a deafening clatter.

Scalpels and clamps rained down around him. The guards froze, stunned by the sudden violence from a woman they thought was broken.

I ripped the remaining restraints off, scrambling off the bed. My bare feet hit the freezing floor, slipping slightly on the spilled medicine, and I bolted for the door.

"Get her!" Lucas bellowed, spinning around, his voice vibrating with murderous rage.

I sprinted into the labyrinth of the penthouse corridors. My breath tore through my lungs like shards of ice. The sprawling estate was a maze of endless hallways and locked doors.

Every shadow felt like a trap, every sound a footstep behind me. I desperately searched for the service elevator, the one hidden exit the staff used. I needed to escape this golden hell before they dragged me back to that steel bed.

Behind me, the thunderous pounding of heavy boots echoed against the marble floors. They were coming.

Suddenly, a sharp, breathtaking pain ripped through my lower abdomen.

Another contraction ripped through my lower abdomen, sharp and merciless.

I slammed against the silk-lined wall of the corridor, my vision swimming with dizzying black spots.

"Check the east wing! She couldn't have gone far!" a guard bellowed from the floor below.

"She's bleeding out. Just follow the drops," another voice replied, cold and detached.

The thunderous pounding of heavy boots echoed up the grand marble staircase. I clutched my swollen stomach, my knees trembling so violently I could barely stand.

The agonizing labor pains were coming faster, stealing the air from my lungs. I couldn't outrun them on foot.

If they caught me, they would drag me back to that sterile basement.

They would strap me down to that cold steel bed, and my baby would die.

I needed leverage. I needed a shield. And as the betrayal burned like acid in my veins, I realized I needed revenge.

Dragging my heavy limbs forward, I passed the master nursery. The heavy oak door was left slightly ajar. I peeked inside.

Bathed in the soft glow of a star-shaped nightlight was five-year-old Carl. He lay in his oversized medical bed, hooked up to a portable oxygen tank and a quiet heart monitor.

He was the boy they were willing to murder my child for.

A desperate plan ignited in my mind. I refused to leave this house empty-handed. I slipped inside, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Carl was fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

My hands shook violently as I reached for the glowing monitors. I swiftly hit the mute buttons, silencing the alarms before unhooking the sticky sensor wires tethering him to the bed.

Leaving his nasal cannula in place, I grabbed the strap of his portable oxygen tank and slung it over my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I whispered, my voice cracking. "But you're coming with me."

I slid my arms under his frail body and lifted him. He stirred with a soft whimper. "Mom?" he mumbled, his eyes fluttering.

"Shh, go back to sleep, Carl," I cooed, kissing his warm forehead. "We're just going for a ride."

The heavy sedatives pulled him back under.

Cradling him tightly, I slipped through the concealed door leading to the private staff stairwell. The concrete steps were steep and treacherous, but the chaotic search was concentrated upstairs. I descended into the shadows.

Every step sent a jolt of pure agony through my pelvis, but I bit my lip until I tasted copper, forcing myself to keep moving.

I pushed through the heavy fire door and stumbled into the underground garage.

The air was thick with the scent of motor oil and damp concrete. I made a beeline for Lucas’s heavy, armored black SUV.

The doors were locked. Panic flared in my chest. I grabbed a heavy steel wrench from a nearby workbench and smashed the driver's side window.

Glass shattered outward. I reached through the jagged opening, unlocked the door, and opened the back.

I gently laid Carl on the plush leather backseat.

Climbing into the driver’s seat,. I ripped off the plastic casing under the steering column. My father had been a mechanic; he taught me things a billionaire’s pristine wife was never supposed to know.

I found the ignition wires, stripped them with my bleeding fingers, and sparked them together. The massive engine roared to life with a deafening growl.

I threw the SUV into drive and slammed my bare foot on the gas pedal. The tires shrieked against the polished concrete as I tore out of the garage, smashing straight through the wooden security barrier just as the piercing wail of the estate’s alarms began to blare.

I burst out into a torrential rainstorm. The night sky was pitch black, the rain coming down in blinding sheets that lashed against the windshield.

I swerved onto the treacherous, winding coastal highway, the heavy vehicle hydroplaning slightly on the slick asphalt.

Suddenly, the two-way radio on the dashboard crackled to life.

"Boss, we have a breach in the lower garage. The black SUV is gone."

Lucas’s voice came through the speaker, vibrating with a lethal, icy calm. "She's in that car. Do not let her get to the main highway."

Within minutes, the blinding glare of high-beam headlights flooded my rearview mirror. Lucas’s men had found me.

I pushed the accelerator to the floor. My vision was fading fast, blurring from sheer exhaustion and the agonizing labor pains that tore through my body. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, gasping for air as the lead SUV closed the distance between us with terrifying speed.

The radio crackled again. "Sir, she's not stopping. We're right behind her."

"Then ram her off the road!" Lucas barked, his voice devoid of any human mercy. "I don't care if she's pregnant. Stop that car!"

"Lucas, no!" I screamed at the dashboard, even though he couldn't hear me.

Through the driving rain, I saw the pursuing SUV surge forward. The heavy vehicle violently rear-ended my SUV.

The sickening crunch of metal on metal echoed over the roaring storm.

The brutal impact threw me forward, the seatbelt biting viciously into my collarbone.

I screamed as I lost control on the wet asphalt. The armored SUV spun out wildly, the tires losing all traction.

With a deafening screech, the SUV crashed violently into the steel guardrail. The airbags deployed with a concussive blast, punching the air from my lungs.

The screeching metal groaned under the immense weight of the vehicle as it tore through the barrier.

Smoke hissed from the crumpled hood. I was trapped, my vision fading into absolute, suffocating darkness.

Lucas’ POV

The relentless rain lashed against my face as I stepped out of the lead pursuit vehicle.

I stared at the crumpled black SUV teetering precariously on the edge of the cliff. The front wheels hung over the abyss, the mangled steel groaning as it threatened to plunge into the violent, churning river below.

I marched toward the wreckage, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.

I was done. I was so utterly exhausted by this woman's relentless defiance. She had ruined everything. I had tried to contain her, tried to do this cleanly, but she was a rabid dog that refused to be leashed.

"Sir?" my head of security, Alfred, asked over the roar of the storm. "Should we extract her?"

I stared at the teetering vehicle. One good shove, and it would all be over. The problem would be erased. The dark water would swallow her and the child she was so desperate to protect.

"No," I said, my voice as cold and hollow as a grave. "Kill her."

Alfred blinked, wiping the rain from his eyes. "Sir?"

"I'm tired of this bitch," I snarled, my eyes locked on the ruined metal. "Push it over. Send her to the bottom of the river."

My men hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving forward. Four heavily built guards placed their hands on the rear tailgate of the SUV.

"On three," Alfred ordered. "One. Two. Three!"

With a unified grunt, they shoved.

The metal gave a sickening screech. The heavy SUV tipped forward, the rear tires lifting off the wet asphalt. For a split second, it hung suspended in the air.

Then, gravity took hold.

The car plummeted over the edge, disappearing into the pitch-black abyss.

Seconds later, a massive, echoing splash rose over the roar of the storm as the violent river swallowed it whole.

I let out a long, ragged breath, feeling a twisted sense of finality.

Then, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen illuminated displaying an incoming message from Paula. I swiped to open it, my eyes scanning the text.

LUCAS! THE NURSERY IS EMPTY! CARL IS WITH THAT BITCH!

The One Who Falls Out of Love First Will Never Find Love

Sun, 27 Sep 2026 01:32:37 +0800

On the day of our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband’s best friend leaned toward him with a grin and asked in French,

“So? How did your little assistant taste?”

My husband calmly placed a slice of my favorite cantaloupe on my plate—the perfect picture of a devoted husband.

Then he answered in the same language, as casually as if they were discussing the weather.

“Young. Tender.”

“Remember to keep it from my wife. If she ever finds out, she’ll leave me.”

The entire group burst into laughter, each of them promising to keep his secret.

I stood beside them, gripping my wineglass so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

They thought speaking French made them safe.

They were wrong.

I understood every word.

And this wasn’t even the first time I had learned about my husband’s mistress.

But I didn’t confront him.

I didn’t cry or make a scene.

Instead, I quietly submitted my application to a classified national research institute.

In three days, I would make his greatest fear come true.

I would leave him.

And once I disappeared, he would never find me again.

——

From the corner of his eye, Logan Miranda noticed that I hadn’t touched the cantaloupe.

Concern immediately filled his eyes.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

The concern looked real.

That was the cruelest part.

Only moments ago, he had been discussing his mistress with his friends. Now he was looking at me as if I were the only woman in his world.

How many times had he looked at me like this while lying straight to my face?

“Nothing.” I forced my voice to remain calm. “What were you talking about just now?”

Logan gently pinched my cheek and smiled with the same practiced tenderness that had fooled me for years.

“Some overseas business. You don’t like hearing about work, so we switched to French.”

He must have been so lost in his affair that he had forgotten I once studied in France as an exchange student.

The air in the ballroom suddenly felt too thin.

I pushed him away.

“Carry on. I need some air.”

Without waiting for his answer, I walked straight toward the doors.

Whispers followed me across the banquet hall.

“That’s Mrs. Miranda. She’s so lucky. Their wedding made headlines around the world, and Mr. Miranda still holds a grand celebration for her every anniversary.”

“I know. Why couldn’t I meet a man like him?”

Once, hearing people envy our marriage would have filled me with happiness.

Now, their words sounded like a cruel joke told at my expense.

No one knew that the man who supposedly loved me more than life itself had already betrayed me.

Just yesterday, I had planned to give Logan his fifth-anniversary present early.

I went to his office without telling anyone, hoping to surprise him.

Instead, he surprised me.

I had nearly fallen asleep while waiting inside the storage closet when a series of breathless sounds jolted me awake.

I opened my eyes.

The man who had sworn he would love only me had his young assistant, Angela, pressed against the floor-to-ceiling window.

Their bare bodies left streak after streak across the spotless glass.

They stayed tangled together for three full hours before finally getting dressed and leaving.

Three hours.

I no longer remembered how I survived them.

I only remembered the despair that broke over me at first.

Then the pain slowly faded.

By the end, I felt nothing.

The moment I walked out of that building, I knew my marriage to Logan was over.

My phone suddenly rang, pulling me out of the memory.

“Arissa, I’ve submitted your name to the research institute. Someone will come to pick you up in three days.”

“You can use these next few days to say goodbye to your family.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Family.

Four years ago, my parents died in an accident.

Since then, Logan had been the only family I had left.

But a man who could betray me was no longer my family.

Which meant I had no family left at all.

“Professor, that won’t be necessary. Please ask your superiors to erase every record of my identity.”

Surprise filled my professor’s voice.

“Why? Once your records are erased, Arissa Miranda will cease to exist. I thought you and Logan were happy. What will he do when he can’t find you?”

A bitter smile touched my lips.

“He cheated on me.”

The other end of the line went completely silent.

Then came a long sigh.

“When you called me yesterday, I suspected something had happened between you and Logan. I just never imagined…”

She paused.

“All right. I’ll have your records erased. Use these three days to take care of everything you need to settle.”

Only after she agreed did I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Once my identity was erased, I wouldn’t even have to waste time dealing with a divorce.

“Thank you, Professor.”

The moment the words left my lips, a familiar voice came from behind me.

“Who cheated?”

I turned and met Logan’s eyes.

There was a flicker of panic in them.

“My professor has another student whose husband cheated on her,” I answered calmly.

Logan studied my face carefully.

Only after confirming that nothing seemed wrong did the tension leave his shoulders.

He pulled me into his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

“Baby, you never have to worry about that. I would never cheat on you.”

His eyes were so sincere that I couldn’t stop myself from asking,

“What if you did?”

Logan shook his head without hesitation.

“Impossible. You’re the only woman I love.”

“I said what if.”

He thought for a moment before rubbing his cheek affectionately against mine.

“Then punish me by making sure I can never find you again.”

His voice softened.

“You know you’re my life, baby. If I ever lost you, I wouldn’t be able to live.”

I smiled but said nothing.

Logan, your punishment was already on its way.

In three days, I would disappear from his world so completely that he would never find me again.

Logan opened his mouth to say something else, but a woman’s voice interrupted him.

“Mr. Miranda, everything is ready.”

Angela stood a few steps away in a tight pencil skirt, reporting to him in a strictly professional tone.

She looked nothing like the flushed woman I had seen pressed against his office window yesterday.

Logan’s expression remained indifferent.

He gave her a curt nod, then waved her away.

As I watched their carefully controlled exchange, bitter amusement curled inside me.

They really were perfect for each other.

Even their acting was equally convincing.

If I hadn’t seen them tangled together with my own eyes, I might have kept believing their performance.

Logan covered my eyes with one large hand and whispered beside my ear,

“Baby, I have a surprise for you.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three…”

Only when he finished the countdown did he remove his hand.

The moment I opened my eyes, countless fireworks soared into the night.

One after another, they burst into enormous roses across the dark sky.

Then the glittering trails came together to form a glowing number.

**10.**

Logan wrapped an arm around me, his voice filled with emotion.

“Baby, we’ve been together for ten years. Time really does fly.”

I tilted my head back and stared at the number in the sky.

For a moment, I felt dazed.

Ten years.

He was right.

We had been together for an entire decade.

From nineteen to twenty-nine.

Ten years could change so much.

It could turn the boy who had once loved me with all his heart into a man I barely recognized.

It could turn a love that had once been real into nothing but lies.

Logan turned toward me and gazed deeply into my eyes.

Slowly, he lowered his head, intending to kiss me.

I was just about to turn away when his phone chimed.

Annoyance immediately crossed his face.

“I specifically told everyone not to disturb me today.”

He reached for his phone.

“Let’s see who’s bold enough to ignore my orders.”

The moment Logan saw the name on the screen, his expression froze.

I glanced over from the corner of my eye.

At the top of his notifications was a message from a contact saved as:

**My Little Assistant.**

Logan cleared his throat and subtly tilted the phone away from me.

His fingers moved quickly across the screen.

But not before I saw the hunger flare in his eyes.

Sure enough, a second later, he turned to me with an apologetic expression.

“Baby, I’m sorry. It’s our wedding anniversary, and I should spend the entire day with you, but something came up at the company—”

I couldn’t bear to hear another lie.

“I understand,” I interrupted. “Work is important.”

Relief flashed across Logan’s face.

Normally, he never left without giving me a goodbye kiss.

This time, he merely pulled me into a hurried embrace before turning and walking away.

I stood there for a moment.

Then I asked my assistant to take care of the remaining guests and followed Logan.

He didn’t stop until he reached the underground parking garage.

The moment he opened the car door, Angela’s expression completely changed.

Gone was the cold, professional assistant from the ballroom.

She pouted and threw herself into his arms.

“Mr. Miranda, that fireworks show made me so jealous.”

Logan sighed helplessly and tapped the tip of her nose.

“Didn’t I put on a fireworks show for your birthday a few days ago? What are you jealous of?”

He lowered his voice.

“I promised you that as long as you stay in line, stay with me, and keep our relationship from my wife, I’ll give you everything she has.”

His words brought back a memory.

Five days ago, fireworks had lit up the sky over the south side of the city for half an hour.

That night, Logan had told me he was working late at the office.

I had even taken a picture and sent it to him, jokingly asking what hopeless romantic had put on such an extravagant display just to make his woman smile.

Now I knew.

That hopeless romantic had been my husband.

And I had been a complete fool.

Angela gave a dissatisfied hum and traced slow circles over Logan’s chest.

“Can’t I be jealous?”

Logan caught her wandering hand, his voice dropping low.

“Didn’t you say you had something special to show me?”

Angela grabbed his tie and yanked him toward her until there wasn’t an inch of space left between them.

“You’ll have to unwrap it yourself.”

Her smile turned playful.

“And I promise you won’t be able to stop once you start.”

Logan’s eyes darkened.

He swept her into his arms and carried her into the car.

Angela let out a startled squeal, but the sound was cut short when he kissed her.

The windows slowly rolled up.

A moment later, the car began rocking in a steady rhythm.

Hidden behind a concrete pillar, I watched as tears slipped down my face and struck the floor one after another.

I had already seen them together yesterday.

I had already watched them betray me with my own eyes.

Yet seeing it a second time still sent wave after wave of dull pain through my chest.

When we first married, Logan had sworn he would spend every wedding anniversary with me from morning until night.

But one message from Angela was all it took to make him abandon that promise.

Was he really that obsessed with her?

I closed my eyes and forced down the emotions raging inside me.

Three more days.

Just three more days, and all of this would finally be over.

I didn’t return to the ballroom.

Instead, I went straight home and tried to rest.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a loud bang jolted me awake.

Logan stood in the doorway, his expression tense.

Only when he saw me in bed did he release a long breath.

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me you’d come home?”

His voice was frantic.

“Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I went back to the ballroom and couldn’t find you?”

I glanced at the time on my phone.

**3:00 a.m.**

I had come home at nine that evening.

Logan had spent six full hours with Angela before he finally remembered to look for me.

What a joke.

“I wasn’t feeling well, so I came home early to rest. I forgot to tell you.”

Perhaps I had spent so long living beside a liar that I had finally learned how to lie without changing my expression.

Fear still lingered on Logan’s face as he climbed into bed and wrapped his arms tightly around me, as if he were terrified I might disappear.

“Next time, you have to tell me where you’re going, baby. I was worried sick.”

His embrace tightened.

“If you ever went missing, I’d search every inch of this city until I found you.”

I closed my eyes and said nothing.

Because in three days, no matter how hard he searched, he would never find me again.

The next morning, perhaps out of guilt over the night before, Logan had an entire jewelry set delivered to the house.

“Last night was my fault, baby. Please don’t be mad at me.”

I glanced at the jewelry, set it aside, and handed him another box.

“I’m not angry.”

I pushed the box into his hands.

“This is the anniversary gift I prepared for you. Don’t open it until two days from now.”

Originally, I had commissioned a designer overseas to create a custom brooch for our anniversary.

But the day I discovered Logan’s affair, I threw the brooch away.

Instead, I removed the wedding ring I had never once taken off and placed it inside the box.

It would be the only thing I left behind for him.

Logan accepted the box, curiosity filling his eyes.

“But our anniversary was yesterday. Why do I have to wait another two days?”

I smiled.

“Because there’s a special surprise inside. It won’t mean anything unless you open it then.”

Expectation lit up his face.

“All right. I promise I’ll listen to you and wait two days.”

The moment he finished speaking, the doorbell rang.

When the door opened, Angela stood outside with tears streaming down her face.

Panic flashed across Logan’s expression.

He recovered almost instantly, took Angela by the arm, and led her toward the backyard.

“Baby, Assistant Angela needs to discuss something urgent with me. We’ll talk in the garden so we don’t interrupt your breakfast.”

I walked to a second-floor window and looked down just in time to see Angela throw herself into Logan’s arms.

But Logan tore her away, fury written across his face.

“Are you out of your mind?”

His voice was low but vicious.

“I told you never to come to my house. If Arissa finds out about us, you’ll answer to me.”

At his outburst, Angela’s tears fell even faster.

She pulled a medical report from her purse and held it out to him.

“I know I shouldn’t have come here, but…”

Her voice trembled.

“I’m pregnant.”

“The doctor said what we did last night was too intense, and now the pregnancy is at risk. I was scared.”

She looked up at him helplessly.

“Mr. Miranda, our baby will be okay, won’t it? This is our first child.”

My entire body went rigid.

For a moment, I couldn’t draw a full breath.

Angela was pregnant?

When Logan and I first married, we had discussed whether we wanted children.

He told me that a child would take our attention away from each other.

He said he wanted our marriage to hold all our love, undivided.

He didn’t want children because he wanted only me.

Back then, I had been so moved by his devotion that I agreed without hesitation.

Only now did I understand.

Logan might not have wanted a child with me.

But that hadn’t stopped him from getting another woman pregnant.

At first, shock crossed his face.

Then he read the medical report, and the tension in his brow immediately eased.

“You’re nine weeks pregnant?”

His voice softened.

“You need to take better care of yourself this early.”

He handed the report back to her.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll take you to the hospital for another examination right away.”

His gaze dropped to her stomach.

“I won’t let anything happen to our baby.”

Only then did Angela smile through her tears.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

Logan’s eyes darkened.

He gripped the back of her head and took control of the kiss.

They kissed as if neither of them could get enough.

Angela’s arms slipped around his neck.

Only then did Logan force himself to pull away.

When he spoke, his voice had turned rough.

“You’re pregnant, and you’re still trying to tempt me?” Logan murmured. “Think about the baby. Be a good girl and wait for me in the car.”

The moment I saw him turn back toward the house, I hurried downstairs and returned to my seat at the dining table.

Strangely, I felt almost grateful.

At least Logan and I had never had a child.

There was nothing left tying me to him.

Nothing that could stop me from walking away for good.

The door opened, and Logan entered with that familiar apologetic expression already in place.

“Baby, something urgent came up at the company. I have to leave town right away.”

He bent down beside me.

“Be good and stay home for the next few days. I’ll bring you a present when I come back, okay?”

I nodded to show that I understood.

Only after studying my face and finding nothing unusual did Logan finally relax and leave.

I watched him disappear through the door.

Then I glanced at the calendar on the table.

Two more days.

Perhaps that was the last time we would ever see each other.

That afternoon, a text from an unknown number appeared on my phone.

Attached was an image of an ultrasound report.

“Let me make this clear. I’m pregnant with Logan’s baby. This is his first child—something you could never give him.”

“ If you have any dignity left, divorce him and make room for me!”

Even without a name, I knew the message had come from Angela.

Now that she was carrying Logan’s child, she finally felt secure enough to challenge me openly.

Unfortunately for her, I had already decided to leave.

Whatever love I had once felt for Logan was dead.

The ultrasound report stirred nothing inside me.

Just as he had promised, Logan didn’t return for the next two days.

I used that time to remove every trace of myself from the house.

I sorted through my belongings one by one.

I donated what could still be used.

I burned what I never wanted to see again.

In the end, I kept only a few essentials to take with me to the research institute.

On the morning of my departure, I woke before sunrise and packed everything into a single suitcase.

I was about to call my professor and ask how long it would be before the institute’s car arrived when another message from Angela appeared.

This time, it was a photograph.

Angela stood in the middle of a sea of flowers, dressed in a white wedding gown.

Logan was kneeling before her on one knee, holding up a ring.

“Logan proposed to me. We’re holding our wedding ceremony today.”

“He said he’s going to make things official for me and our baby. This wedding is only the beginning.”

Another message followed.

“No wonder he kept making calls behind my back for the past two days. He was preparing this huge surprise for me.”

“ He said that even though everything was arranged in a hurry, he still gave me the very best.”

“ He wants me to be the happiest bride and mother in the world.”

Then came the final message.

“ The next time he comes home, he’ll probably throw the divorce papers in your face.”

“ If you want to save yourself some humiliation, you should get out of that house before then.”

“ I’ll be the lady of the house soon enough!”

This time, I replied.

“ Congratulations. You’re about to get exactly what you wanted.”

The moment I sent the message, the car from the research institute arrived.

I picked up my suitcase and climbed inside.

As we waited at a red light, excited voices drifted over from the sidewalk.

“Oh my God, look at that wedding procession!”

“Whoever’s getting married must be loaded!”

I instinctively turned toward the commotion.

Logan was sitting in the back of a Maybach, dressed in a suit.

Angela sat beside him in her wedding gown.

With unmistakable tenderness, Logan reached over and carefully smoothed her hair into place.

Then he turned his head.

Our eyes met through the glass.

His expression changed instantly.

His eyes filled with panic.

The next second, my phone began to ring.

Too Late, Mafia King. I’m Gone.

Sun, 27 Sep 2026 01:14:06 +0800

One month after giving birth, Evangeline Sorel arrived alone at the Leone Family’s private medical facility, the kind of place hidden behind layers of security, coded entrances, and unmarked corridors where only made men and their women were ever brought. Officially, it was a clinic. In truth, it was where the empire’s bloodlines were recorded, verified, and—when necessary—erased.

Among the old families, the first month after childbirth was never treated lightly. A woman who carried the heir of a Don was kept under protection until the end of the thirty-day cycle, when the child’s existence would be formally entered into the family registry and sealed under oath. It was not tradition so much as control, a way for the Leone syndicate to ensure that every heir had a name, a lineage, and an unquestionable claim to power.

Evangeline had expected it to be routine.

A confirmation, a signature, and then she would return home with her son, back to the estate where Alessandro Leone ruled with quiet authority that made even hardened men lower their eyes.

Instead, the man behind the desk did not speak for a long time.

He was old, one of the family’s original medical scribes, someone who had once signed off on births when Evangeline was still new to this world of power and violence. Today, however, his attention remained fixed on the sealed ledger placed before him, as if the ink itself had begun to betray him.

When he finally looked up, there was something carefully restrained in his expression, the kind of hesitation that never belonged in a place governed by absolute loyalty.

“There is an issue with the registry,” he said at last, his voice deliberately neutral.

Evangeline straightened slightly in her chair. “What issue?”

The man turned the ledger toward her. The pages were not paper but thin reinforced sheets embedded with security codes and biometric seals, the kind used to prevent forgery. At the center of the page, her name should have been stamped in unmistakable ink, tied permanently to the birth of a Leone heir.

But there was nothing.

Not her name. Not her file. Not even a trace that she had ever been processed.

Instead, the entry listed another woman entirely.

Cassandra Lorne.

Evangeline did not speak at first. She simply stared at the name, letting her eyes trace it again and again, as though repetition might correct the error. When she finally laughed, it was brief and disbelieving, the kind of sound that came from shock rather than humor.

“That’s impossible,” she said.

Her hand reached into her leather satchel almost instinctively, pulling out a stack of documents she had guarded throughout her pregnancy. Hospital receipts from private examinations. Bloodwork signed under Leone authority. Security-escorted visits to sanctioned medical rooms where only the Don’s woman was allowed entry.

She placed them on the table one by one.

“I came here every month,” she continued, her voice tightening despite her effort to remain composed. “Every appointment was recorded. Alessandro himself ensured I was escorted. There were guards at every door. I gave birth in this facility.”

The scribe took the documents without protest, but as he read, something in his expression began to shift—not confusion, but recognition mixed with something far more unsettling.

When he finished, he set them down carefully, almost respectfully.

“These are authentic,” he admitted.

For a moment, relief flickered through her chest, fragile and immediate.

Then he continued.

“But they are not registered under Evangeline Sorel.”

The words did not immediately register. For a brief, disorienting second, she thought she had misheard him.

Then the meaning settled in, slow and absolute.

“They are listed under Cassandra Lorne,” he repeated.

The air in the room changed. Not physically, not visibly, but in the way every Leone property seemed to carry its own kind of silence, as though even the walls understood when something had gone wrong at a level deeper than violence.

Evangeline sat very still.

And yet inside her mind, everything began to fracture.

She remembered carrying the child. She remembered the weight of it, the careful medical monitoring, the guarded nights inside Leone territory where no outsider could enter without permission. She remembered Alessandro standing by the window during the final weeks, speaking in low tones to men she was never allowed to question.

She remembered the night of delivery—blood, urgency, the sterile brightness of the operating room hidden beneath the estate. She remembered Alessandro’s hand gripping hers with unusual firmness, his voice steady as he ordered the doctors to proceed.

And afterward, she remembered waking to silence that felt almost sacred.

Her son had been placed in her arms, wrapped in white cloth marked with the Leone crest. Alessandro had been beside her bed, unshaken as always, brushing a hand over her forehead before saying softly, as though it were the simplest truth in the world, that she had done well.

Every detail remained intact.

Which was exactly why the scribe’s next words struck deeper than any denial could have.

“Luna—” he corrected himself quickly, then continued more carefully, “Mrs. Sorel… there is no record of your pregnancy at all. Not in medical surveillance, not in family clearance logs, not in internal security reports.”

He paused, as if weighing whether to continue.

Then he added, almost reluctantly, “There is also no biometric confirmation of maternal bond activation.”

That, more than anything, made her chest tighten.

Because in the Leone world, blood alone was never enough. The family did not rely on sentiment or testimony. They relied on biological truth—tracking, confirmation, the irreversible imprint between mother and child that could not be fabricated or erased.

And yet, when Evangeline reached inward, searching for what every mother in this world was meant to feel, there was only memory.

No pull. No recognition. No instinctive certainty that should have existed the moment she first held her son.

Only recollection.

Perfect, detailed, and suddenly suspect.

For the first time since she had arrived, Evangeline realized the most terrifying possibility was not that she had been betrayed.

It was that the entire Leone family record—an archive built on blood, fear, and absolute authority—was insisting, with clinical precision, that her life had never contained a child at all.

By the time Evangeline Sorel finished preparing for the night, the Leone estate had already fallen into that uneasy stillness reserved for powerful families after dark, when every corridor is watched, every shadow carries a gun, and even silence feels like it has been negotiated.

The nursery was at the far end of the west wing, a room reinforced with bulletproof glass and guarded access codes that only a handful of people in the entire organization could override. From where she stood outside it, Evangeline could hear the faint cries of her son through the door, thin and persistent, cutting through the quiet like something alive refusing to be ignored.

A month ago, that sound would have pulled her inside without hesitation.

It had been her rhythm since the day he was born. She had learned his cries the way soldiers learned enemy patterns—what meant hunger, what meant discomfort, what meant fear. Even when exhaustion had made her vision blur, her body had always moved faster than her thoughts, as if the simple act of holding him was the only thing in the world that still belonged to her.

Tonight, she did not move.

Because memory had become a dangerous thing.

Alessandro Leone’s voice lingered in her mind as clearly as if he had spoken it beside her ear.

She thinks the child is hers. Keep it that way. Cassandra cannot afford mistakes.

And another voice, softer, closer, one she now realized had been even more deliberate.

You gave me an heir, Evangeline. That is all that matters.

Her fingers tightened slowly against the edge of the wall, the polished wood beneath her palm grounding her in a reality that no longer felt reliable.

If this had been any other night, she would have already crossed the room, taken her son into her arms, and let him calm against her chest until his breathing steadied.

Now she remained where she was, as though stepping forward might confirm something she was no longer prepared to accept.

The nursery door opened before she could decide anything at all.

A nursemaid stepped out carrying the infant carefully against her shoulder, his small face wet with tears that had not yet been soothed. When she saw Evangeline, relief crossed her expression almost immediately, followed by something more hesitant, like guilt that had nowhere safe to settle.

“Madam Sorel,” she said quickly, lowering her head out of habit. “You’ve returned. The young master has been unsettled for hours. We attempted to contact you, but there was no response.”

Evangeline did not answer.

Her attention had already fixed itself on the child.

Moonlight from the high windows fell across his face in pale streaks, softening his features in a way that almost made them seem innocent enough to trust. And yet, for the first time, Evangeline allowed herself to look at him not as something fragile she was meant to protect, but as something she had been told she was meant to believe.

Alessandro’s features were there, unmistakable in the structure of the face, the line of the brow, the quiet authority even in infancy.

But there were other details she had never questioned before.

The faint curve of the mouth when he stopped crying, the subtle dimples that appeared even in distress, small, almost imperceptible things that did not belong to the Leone bloodline.

They belonged to Cassandra Lorne.

The realization did not arrive as shock. It came instead as something slower, heavier, like a door closing somewhere she could no longer reopen.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence.

Alessandro Leone stepped into view as if the estate itself had made way for him. He wore no jacket, only a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, his presence carrying the quiet authority of a man who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. When his gaze landed on the nursemaid, it sharpened just enough for her to lower her head immediately and extend the child toward him.

“I assigned you to the heir,” he said evenly, taking the infant without hesitation, “not to question my wife.”

The nursemaid murmured an apology and withdrew.

Alessandro shifted the child with practiced ease, adjusting the blanket with a gentleness that would have seemed almost tender if Evangeline had not spent the entire night learning what gentleness could hide. The infant’s cries softened the moment he was held, as though even instinct had been trained to respond to him.

Evangeline watched in silence.

Too much silence.

Alessandro’s eyes moved to her, studying her face with brief, controlled attention.

“You left the estate today,” he said. It was not a question.

“I had business,” she replied quietly.

A pause followed, measured and deliberate, before he stepped closer. With the child resting securely in one arm, he reached out and brushed his fingers against her cheek, the gesture familiar enough to feel like habit rather than affection.

“You look exhausted,” he said. “I told you the past months would take a toll. You should have relied on the staff more.”

Once, that tone had reassured her. It had sounded like care from a man who carried too much responsibility for a world built on violence and loyalty.

Now it sounded like management.

She turned her face slightly, enough for his hand to fall away, and something subtle shifted in his expression before he smoothed it over again.

“Are you upset with me?” he asked calmly, as though he were simply noting a change in weather.

“I’m only tired,” she said.

It was not a lie he challenged.

Instead, he adjusted the blanket around the child and exhaled softly, as if accepting her answer without further interest.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I will remain within the estate. We will take him to the spring together. It will settle the household.”

Evangeline gave a small nod, something that could pass for agreement if no one looked too closely.

Alessandro studied her for a moment longer, then stepped away.

A short while later, he returned with a carved stone cup. The scent reached her before he spoke—warm herbs steeped in milk, the kind prepared under strict instructions from the estate healers.

“You should drink this before you sleep,” he said, offering it naturally, as though it had always been part of their routine.

Evangeline looked at the cup.

She remembered, suddenly and clearly, how the mixture had changed after Alessandro first spoke of wanting an heir. How the taste had become slightly different, how the nights had become heavier, how her memories between one evening and the next had begun to feel less continuous than they should have been.

When she had asked about it once, he had only smiled.

The healers adjusted it for your comfort. It helps your rest. You worry too much.

At the time, she had believed him because there had been no reason not to.

Now she accepted the cup from his hand.

And drank without hesitation.

Alessandro’s gaze remained on her for a moment longer than necessary before he turned away, satisfied enough to stop watching. When his attention shifted, Evangeline quietly set the cup down and let the remaining liquid spill into the basin near the window, the motion concealed by the angle of her body.

Her expression did not change.

“I’m going to rest,” she said.

He did not stop her.

That night, she lay beside him in complete stillness, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the weight of his presence beside her like something carefully controlled rather than naturally shared. Eventually, his arm moved around her, drawing her closer in a gesture that would have once felt like security.

Now it only felt like containment.

Sometime later, he rose.

Evangeline did not move. She did not change her breathing, did not open her eyes. She simply listened as he dressed, as he left the room with the same quiet precision he used for everything that required secrecy.

Only when the door closed did she finally open her eyes.

She waited a few minutes longer before following.

The estate grounds were lit by muted security lamps, their glow diffused through the fog that always settled at night. Alessandro did not go toward the council wing or the secure offices where deals and punishments were decided. He crossed instead toward the smaller residence built beside the main house, a structure she had always assumed was used for staff overflow or visiting associates.

She had never been invited inside.

Tonight, she did not need an invitation.

From behind the cedar line, she watched the door open.

Cassandra Lorne stepped out as though she had been waiting.

She wore a simple robe, unguarded and unarmed, yet the way she moved carried the certainty of someone who belonged exactly where she stood. When she saw Alessandro, she did not hesitate before stepping into his arms.

“Alessandro,” she said softly, and even the way she spoke his name carried familiarity that did not belong to an outsider.

He held her without hesitation.

“You’re late,” Cassandra murmured, though there was no accusation in it, only intimacy.

“I had to make sure she was stable,” he replied.

“She still doesn’t suspect anything?” Cassandra asked, lowering her voice.

Alessandro’s hand rested at her waist, steady and controlled.

“She won’t,” he said.

A pause.

“The medication is still effective. The memories do not consolidate. She remembers fragments, not truth.”

Evangeline felt something inside her go completely still.

Cassandra exhaled softly, relief and satisfaction blending together in her expression.

“And the child?”

“He remains the legal heir,” Alessandro said. “That part cannot be altered anymore.”

Cassandra leaned closer, her voice softer now.

“And Evangeline?”

Alessandro did not answer immediately.

When he finally did, it was without hesitation.

“She is contained.”

The word struck harder than any gunshot she had ever heard.

Cassandra smiled faintly, lifting her hand to touch his face.

“You always make everything so clean,” she said.

Evangeline stood there until her body no longer felt like it belonged to her.

Then she turned away.

She did not run. She did not stumble. She simply walked back through the estate grounds as though nothing had changed, as though the world she had believed in was still intact enough to return to.

But by the time she reached her room, she understood what she had seen.

The child.

The milk.

The controlled sleep.

The separate residence.

It had never been confusion.

It had been construction.

And she had been placed carefully inside it, like a lie designed to breathe.

The sacred spring within Leone territory had always been treated as more than a place of ritual. It was an instrument of the old families, a controlled source of mineral-rich water laced with trace compounds the syndicate’s earliest doctors had once believed could stabilize newborn heirs and strengthen loyalty within bloodlines. Over time, belief and science had blurred into tradition, and what remained was ceremony dressed as devotion.

That morning, the estate was unusually quiet, as if even the grounds understood that something delicate was about to be observed.

Security men stood at discreet intervals along the marble path leading down to the basin, their presence subtle but absolute. No one approached the spring without clearance, not even within Leone territory, and especially not when the Don himself decided to attend a family ritual.

Evangeline stood near the water’s edge, her posture composed in a way that had taken her months to perfect. Beside her, Alessandro Leone carried their son with the ease of someone whose life had been built around control, violence, and precision. Yet in moments like this, he could look almost ordinary, almost like a man attending to family rather than empire.

Anyone watching from a distance might have believed the image was complete.

A Don, his wife, and their heir, standing under controlled sunlight as if nothing in their world had ever been built on betrayal.

Evangeline no longer trusted appearances.

Alessandro adjusted the child in his arms and spoke casually, as they stepped closer to the stone platform surrounding the spring.

“The usual attendant was reassigned this morning,” he said. “The replacement comes recommended by the council.”

Evangeline only nodded.

She did not ask who the council had sent, because she already knew that questions were no longer tools for truth, but invitations for manipulation. Her attention had shifted the moment they arrived.

The attendant stood a few steps away, dressed in the pale uniform assigned to spring custodians. A veil partially obscured her face, and her posture was carefully neutral, as though she had trained herself to exist without drawing attention. Even her movements were measured, restrained, obedient.

To anyone else, she was invisible.

To Evangeline, she was unmistakable.

Cassandra Lorne.

Not by name. Not by record. But by the quiet, precise details that could not be erased by cloth or disguise. The shape of her shoulders when she turned slightly. The way she held her hands, as if accustomed to power she was currently pretending not to possess. And most telling of all, the faint familiarity of her presence beneath the herbal masking oils, like a signature that refused to be fully concealed.

Evangeline lowered her gaze before anything showed on her face.

Alessandro stepped forward, passing the child into Cassandra’s arms with practiced trust.

The infant settled almost immediately, his cries easing as though he recognized the hands holding him. It was a detail that would have once comforted Evangeline. Now it felt like something carefully arranged.

“The blessing should proceed without delay,” Alessandro said, his voice carrying the calm authority that kept entire sectors of the Leone network obedient. Then, as if remembering her presence, he glanced toward Evangeline. “You’ve been quiet since last night.”

There was no warmth in the observation, only assessment.

Evangeline looked toward the water instead of him.

“It’s nothing,” she said evenly. “Proceed as you planned.”

For a brief moment, Alessandro studied her in silence, as though weighing whether her response required correction. Then he turned away, satisfied or uninterested, and motioned for the ritual to begin.

Evangeline stepped closer to the stone edge of the spring.

The water beneath the surface reflected the pale sky in fractured light, moving slowly as if it had its own intelligence. Beneath that calm exterior, she knew there were deeper currents fed by underground channels that ran beneath Leone territory, water systems engineered generations ago to supply both the estate and its hidden operations.

It had always been called sacred.

It had always been controlled.

She sat on the edge of the stone platform, her hands resting lightly beside her, her reflection barely visible in the shifting surface below. Behind her, voices moved in low coordination, instructions being given, cloth adjusted, ceremonial words prepared.

And then, without warning, the world tilted.

There was no sound of approach, no shift in air to warn her. Only impact, sudden and deliberate, a force striking her from behind with enough precision to send her body forward over the edge.

For a fraction of a second, she felt nothing but weightlessness.

Then the water closed over her.

Cold, immediate, consuming.

The impact stole her breath before she could even register panic. Her body sank beneath the surface, dragged downward by depth she had never been taught to respect. The spring was deeper than it appeared, engineered with a submerged basin that connected to underground currents feeding the estate’s irrigation and concealed infrastructure.

Evangeline had never been a strong swimmer.

Her arms moved instinctively, disoriented, reaching upward through the distorted light. Her lungs tightened as water replaced air, pressure building in her chest with unbearable speed.

Her mind fractured into fragments of thought, none of them complete enough to hold onto.

Alessandro.

The bond.

Help me.

She tried to reach upward, tried to call through instinct, through everything she had once believed tied them together. But there was nothing reliable to grasp, only the distant distortion of voices above the surface.

Then someone entered the water.

For a brief moment, relief surged through her, sharp and immediate, because rescue was the only logical outcome. Someone had seen. Someone had come.

But the hand that closed around her arm did not pull her upward.

It forced her down.

The realization hit slower than the panic, but heavier. Her body twisted in resistance, her fingers clawing at the arm restraining her as instinct took over. Skin tore beneath her nails, resistance met with controlled persistence.

And through the blurred distortion of water and light, she saw the face above her.

Cassandra.

There was no expression of hesitation. No panic. Only intent.

Evangeline’s lungs burned as her body was pressed deeper, the force deliberate enough to ensure stillness without immediate collapse. Her vision began to darken at the edges, the world narrowing into pressure and silence.

Something primal inside her surged upward, raw and uncontrolled. She struck again, harder this time, her nails catching flesh, drawing blood. The grip tightened momentarily, then adjusted, maintaining control with chilling precision.

It was not an accident.

It was execution disguised as ritual chaos.

Only when her resistance weakened, when her body could no longer sustain the struggle, did the pressure suddenly release.

Hands replaced force.

She was pulled upward.

Air returned in violent gasps as she broke the surface, collapsing onto the stone edge, coughing water from her lungs as her body shuddered with delayed shock. The world above her felt distant, disjointed, as voices overlapped without clarity.

Footsteps gathered. Orders were spoken. Movement surrounded her, but none of it reached her fully.

She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary, forcing her breathing into something controlled.

Then Alessandro’s voice cut through the noise.

Not immediately beside her.

Somewhere slightly farther away.

“Are you injured?”

There was concern in it, measured but present.

Evangeline did not move.

A pause followed.

Then Cassandra’s voice answered softly, strained but composed.

“It was my fault,” she said. “She panicked when she fell. I think she thought I was trying to—”

Her voice broke slightly, just enough to sound fragile.

“I’m fine. It’s just… I might have a mark.”

Another pause, softer now.

“I don’t have much time to worry about scars.”

Silence settled briefly after that.

Then Alessandro spoke again, lower, closer to her now.

“It won’t leave a mark,” he said. “I’ll have the medics prepare treatment personally.”

Evangeline did not open her eyes, but she understood exactly what had just happened.

He had gone to her.

Not to the woman coughing water onto sacred stone.

Not to his wife.

But to Cassandra.

Something inside her tightened in a way that had nothing to do with pain anymore.

Eventually, she turned her head and coughed again, forcing the remaining water from her lungs. The sound finally drew attention toward her.

Alessandro appeared beside her immediately.

His hands settled on her shoulders with practiced certainty, grounding her as if nothing unusual had occurred at all.

“Evangeline,” he said.

His voice had shifted now, concern sharpened into focus.

“How are you feeling?”

She looked at him.

Really looked.

At the man who had built an empire on obedience and silence, who could decide life or death with a single call, who now stood above her as though nothing in the last few minutes had required explanation.

Then she lowered her gaze.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly.

His expression tightened.

“No,” he replied.

Without waiting for permission, he lifted her into his arms.

The motion was familiar. Controlled. Protective in a way that would have once made her believe she was safe.

Now it felt like something else entirely.

He turned toward the attendants.

“Bring the child,” he ordered.

Cassandra lowered her eyes and followed without hesitation, carrying the heir as though nothing had changed.

Evangeline rested against Alessandro’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his shirt, the same heartbeat she had once mistaken for certainty.

And for the first time, she understood with absolute clarity that stability was not proof of loyalty.

It was proof of discipline.

And discipline, in their world, had never been the same thing as love.

Evangeline did not make it to the healer’s hall.

Her strength gave out on the final stretch of the private road leading up to the Leone medical compound, a strip of asphalt cutting through the estate like a vein of control disguised as care. By the time her knees finally hit the ground, there was no dramatic collapse left in her body, only the quiet surrender of someone who had run out of places to hold herself together.

The last thing she remembered before everything went black was the distant hum of security drones above the treeline and the faint scent of disinfectant carried on the wind, the kind the Leone family used in all their controlled facilities, as if even the air had to be made obedient.

When she woke again, it was to silence.

She was inside one of the recovery chambers beneath the healer’s hall, a place carved into pale stone and reinforced with old-world architecture that the Leone syndicate still preferred for its discretion. The ceiling above her curved in arches etched with faded insignias of the founding families, symbols once meant to signify healing but now serving as quiet reminders of ownership.

The air carried the sterile sharpness of antiseptic mixed with crushed medicinal herbs and burned incense, a combination meant to mask pain, infection, and truth alike. Evangeline lay still for a long time, staring upward, letting her mind slowly stitch together the broken sequence of events that had brought her here.

Her body felt hollowed out, as though every system had been forced to run beyond its limits and then abruptly shut down. Even breathing came with a dull sting in her chest. When she finally turned her head, she saw what she already suspected.

No one was there.

Not a guard outside the chamber glass. Not a healer at her bedside. Not even the usual administrative observer assigned to report recovery status back to the Leone records office. Only the faint vibration of activity beyond the sealed door suggested that the world outside still existed.

And even that did not seem to include her.

Voices drifted through the corridor beyond, careless and unguarded, belonging to junior healers who had not yet learned what silence meant in a place like this. They spoke as though the walls themselves had already decided Evangeline Sorel was irrelevant.

“Lady Lorne’s injury was superficial at best,” one of them said, almost conversationally. “Still, the Don brought in a private medical unit. I heard he ordered the chief surgeon to ensure no trace of a mark remained.”

A soft laugh followed, the kind people used when they believed they were safely out of reach.

“And the other one?” another voice replied. “The one who was pulled from the spring after drowning?”

There was a pause, then a dismissive tone, almost bored.

“She was left to the apprentices. No priority order was issued for her care.”

A chair scraped lightly, as if someone had leaned back in amusement.

“I passed by Lady Lorne’s recovery suite earlier,” the first voice continued. “The Don never left her side. He was speaking to her through the bond interface even while the doctors worked on her wound. Calling her his wife. Reassuring her the entire time.”

Another quiet laugh, lower this time.

“It is almost impressive, the level of attention.”

Evangeline did not move.

Her fingers, resting beside her on the stone bed, curled faintly into the fabric beneath them, not in protest, but in a reflex that had nowhere else to go.

A memory surfaced uninvited.

A winter night, long before she had started questioning anything. She had come back from an inspection route with a fever that burned through her like a slow fire. Her vision had blurred, her limbs heavy, her voice barely holding shape. And Alessandro—Alessandro Leone had shut down an entire district clinic for the night, summoned three specialists from the central hospital, and remained in the room until morning without once allowing himself rest.

He had held her wrist when her temperature spiked, spoken to her in that low, steady voice that made even doctors step carefully around him, and when she finally stabilized, he had not left immediately. He had stayed long enough to make her believe that she mattered more than the machinery of his world.

Back then, she had mistaken efficiency for devotion.

Now she lay in a medical chamber beneath his empire, forgotten in the same system that had once moved mountains for her.

The door opened.

Two apprentice healers entered without ceremony, each carrying a shallow tray of medication and bandages. They did not look at her with concern, only with the flat impatience of people assigned an unwanted task.

“So you are awake,” one of them said, as though her consciousness was an inconvenience that had arrived too late.

Evangeline slowly pushed herself upright, ignoring the way her muscles protested. The movement alone cost her more than she was willing to admit.

The second apprentice set her tray down harder than necessary.

“You should stop pretending,” she said, her tone sharpened by something personal. “There is no misunderstanding here. Everyone knows you inserted yourself into a bond that was never yours.”

Evangeline lifted her gaze slightly.

“What do you mean?” Her voice came out rougher than she intended.

The apprentice gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Lady Lorne has always been connected to the Don,” she replied. “Before you were even brought into the estate. It is not a secret among those who work in the upper medical circle. You are the one who disrupted it.”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

“The Don prioritizes her. He always has. He ensures her recovery is perfect, her comfort absolute. Meanwhile, you end up here because no one considers you worth the same attention.”

Her gaze flicked over Evangeline’s damp hair and pale face with open contempt.

“It is not difficult to understand where you stand.”

Evangeline did not respond.

Not because she agreed, and not because she had nothing to say, but because there was suddenly no energy left in her to argue with a version of the world that had already been decided without her consent.

One of the apprentices placed a bowl of medicine on the table, then without warning retrieved a silver medical injector from her kit. There was no verification, no protocol check, no confirmation of allergies or compatibility. She stepped forward and seized Evangeline’s arm.

“Wait—” Evangeline began, but her words were cut off as the needle pierced her skin.

Pain flared sharply, immediate and invasive.

Then again.

And again.

The apprentice did not stop after the first application. She repeated the injections into the same area with deliberate carelessness, as though frustration had replaced medical procedure. The skin broke easily under the repeated punctures, blood gathering in thin lines along Evangeline’s arm.

“This is what happens when you disrupt what does not belong to you,” the apprentice said coldly, her voice stripped of concern. “Do not act fragile. You are only making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

When she finally withdrew the injector, she did so as if completing a routine task, leaving behind a bruised, bleeding arm without a second glance.

The door closed behind them.

Silence returned with immediate heaviness.

Evangeline lowered her eyes to her arm. The puncture sites were uneven, already swelling, the skin irritated beyond what should have been standard treatment. When she touched it lightly, her fingers came away faintly stained.

She reached for the cloth beside the basin, intending to clean the wound, but stopped midway.

Her breath caught.

At first it was subtle, a tightening behind her ribs that made her inhale slower than she intended. Then came the heat, spreading upward into her throat, followed by a constriction so sudden that it forced her upright.

Her body recognized it before her mind fully formed the thought.

An allergic reaction.

The medication had not been checked.

Or it had been chosen incorrectly on purpose.

She reached for the emergency call switch embedded in the wall beside her bed. No response came. No alarm. No movement beyond the door. The chamber remained sealed in the indifference of a system that had already decided where her importance ended.

And then she remembered what she had heard outside.

Lady Lorne’s suite had every available specialist.

Evangeline’s vision began to blur at the edges.

Her hand trembled as she searched for anything that might still connect her to the outside world, anything that might still respond to her existence. Her fingers found the communication stone embedded with Alessandro Leone’s authorization seal, an old device used when distance or security protocols separated them.

She activated it with what strength she had left.

The connection formed almost instantly.

For a brief moment, something flickered through the bond interface, faint but real enough to feel like possibility.

“Alessandro…” she tried to say, but her voice broke before it could carry.

There was a pause on the other end.

Then a sound. Distant. Indistinct. Not urgency. Not alarm.

Interference.

And then nothing.

The connection collapsed.

The stone slipped from her fingers and struck the floor with a muted sound that seemed too small for what it meant.

Evangeline’s body slumped back against the stone bed as her vision narrowed, the chamber ceiling fading into a soft blur of pale arches and engraved symbols that no longer meant anything to her.

The last sensation she registered was not pain, nor fear, but absence.

Not of people.

Of response.

And in a world ruled by families like the Leones, absence was never accidental.

Her Blood Emergency Was Fake. My Dead Baby Wasn't

Sat, 26 Sep 2026 01:32:56 +0800

When I was two months pregnant with the heir to the Moretti Family, my husband, Julian Moretti, ordered me to give blood to Anne, the daughter of one of his family's oldest allies.

I refused.

My doctor had warned me that I was severely anemic. Losing blood could put both me and the baby at risk.

But the men gathered outside the Moretti family's private medical wing looked at me as though I were being selfish.

"Anne is on the operating table, and you're the only one here with a matching blood type. She's practically family. What's the problem with giving a little blood?"

Before I could answer, several of Julian's men seized my arms and forced me toward the treatment room.

I looked at my husband.

For one brief second, something like guilt flickered across Julian's face.

Then his expression hardened.

"It's only a blood transfusion," he said quietly. "Our child will be fine."

I stopped struggling.

A single tear slipped down my cheek.

That was the moment I understood exactly where our unborn child and I stood in Julian Moretti's world.

After the transfusion, I dragged my weakened body out of the Moretti family's private medical wing and made my way upstairs to obstetrics.

When the doctor asked why I was there, I placed a trembling hand over my still-flat stomach.

"I want to terminate the pregnancy."

……

I spent three days alone in the Moretti family's private hospital after the abortion.

During those three days, Julian never came to see me.

He stayed with Anne the entire time.

My womb was empty now, but the ache in my chest hurt far worse than anything the doctors had done to my body.

On the day I was discharged, I walked out of the private ward carrying my own bag. Near the entrance, I ran into Julian, Anne, and several men from Julian's inner circle.

I was alone.

Anne had Julian supporting her by the arm.

The moment Julian saw me, his steps faltered.

"Why are you still at the hospital?"

"Nothing."

I had no intention of telling him about the abortion. I lowered my eyes and walked past him, my face still pale from blood loss.

"We're leaving together."

Julian caught my wrist. His tone carried the unquestionable authority of a Moretti capo.

By the time we reached the car, Anne had already slipped into the front passenger seat.

She looked at me with wide, innocent eyes.

"Scarlett, I just had surgery for my stomach ulcer, and I've been getting carsick lately. You don't mind if I sit in front, do you?"

I didn't argue.

I simply reached for the back door.

Before I could get in, three of Julian's men climbed into the back seat, filling every available space.

They looked at me without the slightest intention of moving.

"Anne is still weak," one of them said. "We're coming back to the Moretti estate too. Someone needs to look after her."

I glanced at Julian behind the wheel.

His jaw tightened.

But he said nothing.

A bitter smile touched my lips as cicadas screamed beneath the brutal summer sun.

Why had I still expected anything from this man?

Julian's men had never liked me.

Everyone around him believed Anne was the woman who truly belonged beside him. To them, I was the outsider who had somehow taken the place that should have been hers.

Even after I became Julian Moretti's wife, they treated me like a servant in my own home.

Julian had never stopped them.

Even when I was carrying his child, they had still forced me to give Anne my blood.

Afterward, no one thanked me.

One of them had even said that saving someone important to the Moretti Family should be considered an honor.

This wasn't the first time they had humiliated me.

It was simply the first time I no longer had the strength or desire to fight back.

"Fine. I'll get home myself."

I closed the car door and walked away.

It was rush hour, and I couldn't find a cab.

Only days after terminating my pregnancy, I spent nearly an hour walking beneath the scorching sun before I finally reached the Moretti estate.

The moment I stepped through the door, irritated voices greeted me.

"Scarlett, what took you so long? We've been back forever."

"We haven't eaten all evening. Come on, make something. It's been a while since we've had your cooking."

I slowly looked toward Julian and Anne.

The summer heat was suffocating, but the air conditioning had been turned off because they were worried Anne might get chilled after surgery.

Julian sat beside her with a paper fan in his hand.

Sweat had already dampened the collar of his shirt, yet he seemed not to notice. He kept fanning Anne patiently, making sure she was comfortable.

I stood there silently.

Sam finally lost his patience.

"Julian, we're starving. Tell your wife to make us something to eat."

Julian finally looked up at me.

He didn't seem to notice how pale I was as he casually ordered, "Scarlett, make something simple for everyone. And make Anne some soup. She needs it to recover."

A sharp pain pierced my chest, almost stealing my breath.

Without a word, I turned and walked into the kitchen.

Behind me came the sound of laughter and conversation from Julian and his men. In the Moretti estate, the home I was supposed to share with my husband, I suddenly felt like the only outsider.

I used to fight with them whenever they treated me this way.

I had screamed, argued, and desperately defended whatever dignity I had left, thinking that if I fought hard enough, they might finally respect me.

Instead, every outburst only gave them another reason to despise me.

Compared to me, Anne was always sweet, patient, and understanding. She never raised her voice. Never lost her temper.

At least, that was what everyone around Julian believed.

But I was done.

With these people.

With this marriage.

None of it was worth another ounce of my strength.

By the time I finished cooking and carried the food into the dining room, exhaustion had settled deep into my bones.

Anne immediately stood up.

"Scarlett, let me help."

I handed her the bowl of chicken soup.

The moment her fingers touched it, she suddenly pulled her hands away.

The bowl crashed to the marble floor.

Hot soup splashed across my bare calf, and porcelain shattered around my feet.

"Watch out!"

Julian moved instantly.

He pulled Anne behind him, shielding her with his body.

Not a single drop had touched her.

Meanwhile, a large patch of skin on my calf had already turned an angry red.

"Scarlett..."

Anne stared at me, her eyes immediately filling with tears.

"I know you don't like me, but you didn't have to drop the bowl on purpose."

Before I could speak, Julian's men were already glaring at me.

"What the hell are you doing, Scarlett?"

"You've been going after Anne for years. She's Julian's childhood friend. Why do you always have to make everything ugly?"

I looked at them coldly.

"She let go first."

The room fell silent for half a second.

Then Julian's voice cut through it.

"Enough."

He looked directly at me.

"Scarlett, apologize."

I stared at him.

His expression was cold, carrying the same authority he used when giving orders to the men beneath him.

"You've gone too far this time. Anne just got out of the hospital. You scared her."

It was the middle of summer, yet a chill spread through my entire body.

The burn on my calf was throbbing, but compared to the pain in my chest, it barely registered.

Once, Julian Moretti had been the man who made me feel safe.

Standing beside him had made me believe no one in this world could hurt me.

Now I finally understood.

He was the one hurting me most.

Something inside me snapped.

"Fine."

I laughed softly, even as tears gathered in my eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Julian froze.

Perhaps he had expected me to argue.

Perhaps he had expected another screaming match.

He reached toward me, but I stepped away before his hand could touch me.

"Dinner is ready, and I've apologized. Can I go upstairs and treat my burn now?"

I gestured toward the blistering skin on my calf.

Julian's eyes finally dropped to my injury.

I didn't wait for his response.

Leaving the broken porcelain and spilled soup behind, I turned and went upstairs.

Not long after I closed the bedroom door, voices erupted downstairs.

Then Anne's tearful voice reached me.

"I'm sorry. This is all my fault. Scarlett is angry because of me. I always ruin everything. I shouldn't keep causing trouble for you."

The front door opened.

Footsteps hurried after her.

Then the heavy doors of the Moretti estate slammed shut.

I assumed Julian had gone with them.

Instead, a few moments later, my bedroom door opened.

Julian walked in.

Before I could move away, he wrapped his arms around me from behind.

His large hand settled gently over my stomach.

"Scarlett, why can't you just let it go?"

His voice was unexpectedly soft now.

"Anne is still childish. You know what she's like. You're my wife. Can't you be a little more understanding?"

His palm moved slowly over the place where he still believed our child was growing.

"Besides, we have a baby now. Once I settle the Family's business, I'll make everything up to you. I'll give you the wedding you deserve."

He lowered his voice, almost coaxing me.

"Don't be angry anymore, all right?"

I stared down at the hand resting on my empty womb.

Then I pushed it away.

A cold laugh escaped me.

"So you do remember I'm pregnant?"

Julian's smile froze when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He answered, and Sam's urgent voice filled the quiet bedroom.

"Julian, get over here. Anne passed out on the way to the hospital. They're asking for payment before they continue with the private treatment."

Julian's expression changed instantly.

Without hesitation, he reached for the bank card on the bedside table.

It was the account where we'd been putting aside money for our baby.

I stared at him in disbelief.

"Have you lost your mind, Julian?"

I stepped in front of him.

"You're taking the money we saved for our child to pay Anne's medical bills?"

Impatience darkened his eyes.

"Enough, Scarlett. Someone's life is at stake, and you're still obsessing over money."

He brushed past me.

"Stop being so selfish."

Something inside me exploded.

I grabbed his arm and struck his shoulder desperately.

"Selfish? She's your childhood friend, Julian, not mine. Why should my money pay for her?"

His expression turned vicious.

Before I could react, Julian shoved me away.

My weakened body couldn't keep its balance.

The shattered porcelain from earlier still hadn't been cleaned up.

I fell straight onto it.

Pain tore through my back and arms.

When I lifted my trembling hands, blood was already running down my skin.

Julian was gone.

He didn't even look back.

I stared at my blood-covered hands and used the last of my strength to call the Moretti family's private medical service.

Then everything went black.

Somewhere in the darkness, I dreamed about the boy Julian used to be.

Years ago, before blood and power had hardened him into a Moretti capo, he had climbed the hill with me to the old church overlooking the family territory.

He had knelt before the altar, clasped his hands, and made his vow with complete sincerity.

"I'll protect Scarlett for the rest of my life. If I ever break that promise, may God punish me for it."

When I woke again, it was already late at night.

The private hospital room was dark.

I was alone.

A nurse came in, poured me a glass of water, and carefully helped me sit up.

Her gaze fell on the bandages covering my arms, and she sighed.

"Mrs. Moretti, you just had an abortion, and now you've injured yourself this badly. Your body can't keep taking this. You need to rest."

I closed my eyes.

Bitterness spread through me until there was almost no pain left.

After quietly thanking her, I picked up my phone.

The first thing I saw was a post Sam had made in the private circle shared by Julian's men.

"At the end of the day, Julian is the only one who truly cares about Anne."

Below it was a photograph.

Julian sat on the edge of a hospital bed.

Anne was lying with her head in his lap, smiling up at him with complete contentment.

I stared at the picture for several seconds.

They really did belong together.

The pain in my chest slowly faded into numbness.

I wasn't going to cry anymore.

Neither of them deserved another tear from me.

I opened my banking app and checked my private account.

Thankfully, the fourteen thousand dollars I'd saved separately was still untouched.

I transferred the money into an account Julian couldn't access.

The moment I confirmed the transaction, I knew my marriage to Julian Moretti had ended along with our child.

Then I made another call.

"Lily, is the position at headquarters still available?"

Lily managed one of the Moretti Family's legitimate corporations, where I had worked for years without relying on Julian's name.

A week earlier, I'd been offered a promotion and a transfer to the company's headquarters in another city.

I had turned it down.

I had been pregnant then, and I hadn't wanted to leave Julian.

None of that mattered anymore.

"Scarlett?"

Lily sounded surprised.

"I thought you turned it down because of the pregnancy. Don't worry about work right now. Take care of yourself. There will be other opportunities."

I took a slow breath.

"I lost the baby."

Silence filled the line.

"I want to go back to work as soon as possible. If the headquarters position is still open, I want it."

Another brief silence followed.

Then Lily's voice softened.

"I'll put your name back on the transfer list. But losing a child isn't something you recover from overnight. Take a week to rest. After that, report directly to headquarters."

My fingers tightened around the phone.

"All right."

My voice trembled slightly.

"Thank you, Lily."

During the entire week I spent recovering in the Moretti family's private hospital, Julian never came to see me.

Maybe he didn't even remember that I was supposed to be pregnant.

Strangely, I wasn't surprised.

That was simply who Julian was.

In the past, I had always found excuses for him. He was a Moretti capo. There was always Family business to handle, territory to protect, people waiting for his orders.

But I wouldn't make excuses for him anymore.

A week later, I was finally well enough to leave the hospital.

During those seven days, I occasionally looked through Anne's social media.

Almost every post was about Julian.

In the pictures, Anne looked like a princess surrounded by Julian's men and the people closest to the Moretti Family. Her hospital room was filled with expensive gifts, flowers, and carefully prepared meals.

Meanwhile, I had spent the entire week alone.

Then I noticed the pearls around her neck.

I recognized them immediately.

Julian had once promised that necklace to me.

Now it rested against Anne's throat.

Oddly enough, I felt nothing.

No anger.

No jealousy.

Nothing at all.

When I returned to the Moretti estate, everything was exactly as I'd left it.

Julian hadn't been home.

He had spent the entire week at the hospital with Anne. He probably didn't even know that I had been admitted too.

I went upstairs and started packing.

There wasn't much I wanted to take.

I threw away the photograph beside our bed and burned the old love letters Julian had written me before he became the man he was today.

Then I took off my wedding ring.

For a moment, I stared at it in my palm before placing it on the coffee table.

When I finished packing, I looked around the estate.

Without my belongings, the rooms felt exactly as they had when Julian and I first moved in.

Cold.

Empty.

Lifeless.

My gaze fell on the divorce papers lying on the table.

I picked up a pen and signed my name.

I was about to call Julian and ask him to come home when the front door opened.

He walked in alone.

At that moment, I was on the phone with someone from the Moretti corporation's headquarters, confirming the details of my transfer.

"What time is your flight?" she asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon."

I ended the call when I saw Julian.

He frowned.

"What's happening tomorrow afternoon? Do you have a prenatal appointment?"

I put my phone away.

"Work."

That was all I said.

Only then did I notice the container in his hand.

Julian followed my gaze and held it out to me.

"I'm sorry, Scarlett. Anne has been in the hospital all week. I couldn't leave her alone."

His tone softened slightly.

"I brought you some fish soup. It's supposed to be good for you and the baby."

I didn't take it.

Even the faint smell made my stomach turn.

Julian and I had been together for years.

Yet he still didn't remember that I couldn't stand fish.

How ironic.

But I didn't have the energy to remind him anymore.

Then Julian seemed to remember something.

"Oh, right."

He placed a silk dress over the back of a chair.

"This belongs to Anne. It's delicate, so it can't go in the washing machine. Hand wash it for her tonight."

I stared at the dress.

Then at him.

For the first time, I genuinely wondered whether Julian had changed over the years, or whether I had simply refused to see what kind of man I'd married.

My jaw tightened.

"Leave it there."

Julian didn't notice anything unusual.

"I just came back to pick up some clothes. I'll head back to the hospital afterward."

He walked into the bedroom and began packing.

I looked at the divorce papers in my hand.

Then I followed him.

"Julian."

He glanced over.

I held the papers out to him.

"The ownership paperwork for this estate has finally been settled. I just need your signature here."

Julian barely looked at the pages.

He took the pen and signed his name without hesitation.

I watched his signature appear beneath mine.

That easily.

Years of marriage ended with a few careless strokes of his pen.

Julian handed the papers back to me, grabbed his bag, and left for the hospital again.

The moment the door closed behind him, I changed my flight.

Instead of leaving tomorrow afternoon, I booked one departing in two hours.

Before I left, I placed everything on the coffee table.

My wedding ring.

The signed divorce papers.

And the medical report confirming that our child was gone.

Those were the last things I wanted Julian Moretti to see.

Then I picked up my suitcase and walked out of the Moretti estate for the final time.

Whatever had once existed between us was over.

The Mafia Heir Proposed on My Wedding Day

Sat, 26 Sep 2026 01:14:06 +0800

When we stepped out of the family's detention compound, Sofia Bellini emerged with eyes still red and swollen from crying. Without so much as asking, she opened the passenger door of my car and slipped into the front seat as though it belonged to her.

I wasn't in the mood for another argument.

I reached for the ignition, but before I could start the engine, Sofia caught my wrist.

Her eyes never met mine.

Instead, she looked past me at my fiancé, Damiano Valenti.

"I'm scared," she murmured, her voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. "After everything that's happened to my brother... I don't want to ride home with anyone else."

She looked so fragile that anyone who didn't know better would've believed she was the victim in all of this.

I calmly pulled my hand free.

"Then get out."

The inside of the car fell silent.

A second later, tears rolled down Sofia's cheeks as she lowered her head, her quiet sobs filling the space between us.

From behind me came Damiano's icy voice.

"Viviana, do you always have to be this cold?"

I looked at him through the rearview mirror.

"You know she's barely holding herself together after what happened to Marco. Is it really so difficult to show her a little kindness?"

His expression hardened before I could answer.

"Move over. I'll drive."

He walked around the car and yanked the driver's door open with enough force to make it slam against its hinges. The cold night air rushed inside, carrying the scent of rain and gunpowder from the training grounds.

I stayed where I was.

For a long moment, our eyes met.

The man standing before me felt nothing like the Damiano I had spent seven years loving.

Without the slightest hesitation, he unfastened my seat belt, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out of the driver's seat.

I stumbled backward, my heels slipping against the gravel before I barely managed to steady myself.

He never looked back.

Instead, he slid into my seat, leaned toward Sofia, and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'll take you home first."

Sofia's tear-stained face immediately brightened.

"Oh, Damiano..."

She smiled sweetly, but before turning away, she deliberately shot me a look of quiet triumph.

As the engine started, Damiano finally spoke over his shoulder.

"You're an adult. Find another car back to the estate."

"I'll come back after I make sure she's safe."

The black sedan disappeared through the compound gates without another glance in my direction.

Just before it turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of Sofia leaning across the center console to press a lingering kiss against Damiano's cheek.

Neither of them seemed concerned that I could still see.

My phone vibrated inside my coat.

The caller ID displayed one name.

Mother.

I answered almost immediately.

"My dear," my mother said gently, "have you looked over the file your father sent?"

I knew exactly which file she meant.

The profile of Leonardo Vitale.

The heir to one of the oldest and most feared Mafia syndicates in the country.

Powerful.

Respected.

A man whose name alone was enough to make rival families think twice before pulling the trigger.

When I remained silent, my mother let out a quiet breath of relief.

"So you've finally made your decision."

"Your father has grown older these past few years. Even though he never approved of you leaving the family, he never stopped believing you'd come home one day."

I looked toward the towering iron gates of the Valenti estate, where rows of armed guards stood beneath pools of golden light, their rifles resting across their chests.

Seven years ago, I had walked away from my own family because I refused to become a bargaining chip in an arranged marriage meant to strengthen an alliance between Mafia empires.

Then I met Damiano.

Back then, he was nothing more than an ambitious young lieutenant with little influence and even fewer allies.

I stood beside him through every bloody power struggle, every betrayal, and every assassination attempt until he climbed the ranks and became the Valenti family's underboss—the man everyone in the organization respected second only to the Don himself.

Whenever I brought up setting a date for our wedding, he always smiled, kissed my forehead, and said the timing wasn't right.

For him, I had made sacrifices no one would ever know.

Twice, I had ended pregnancies because he insisted that having a child while he was fighting for power would only paint a target on our family's backs.

Each time, I convinced myself he was protecting us.

Each time, I believed that once everything settled down, we'd finally have the future he kept promising me.

How ridiculous I had been.

Love had never been the problem.

I had simply loved someone who never intended to give me the same place in his life that I had given him in mine.

By the time I returned to the villa we shared inside the Valenti estate, Damiano was already home.

Perhaps guilt had brought him back earlier than expected.

He found me kneeling beside the walk-in wardrobe, folding my clothes into neat suitcases one piece at a time.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm packing my things," I replied calmly, without looking up, hoping he would simply take a shower and leave me alone.

The expensive cologne lingering on him couldn't hide the faint trace of Sofia's perfume.

It clung stubbornly to his clothes, making my stomach twist with disgust.

He stood there for a moment, completely unaware that anything had changed, before speaking as casually as if tonight had been no different from any other.

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if we lost this place."

Damiano leaned one shoulder against the doorway, a faint smile playing on his lips as he looked around the villa we had shared inside the Valenti estate.

"Once we're married, I'll have a new house built for us. Not inside the compound." His eyes settled on me with quiet confidence. "Something bigger. More secure. Somewhere no one can interfere with us. You'll like it."

As he spoke, his gaze lingered on my face, as though he were already picturing the life we were supposed to build together. Every few moments, he looked back at me, waiting for the smile he was certain those promises would bring.

I noticed every glance.

I simply acted as though I hadn't.

There had been a time when hearing him talk about our future would've made me happier than any expensive gift he could've given me.

Now, I couldn't even bring myself to pretend.

I had no tears left to waste on him.

The silence between us gradually erased the smile from his face. He could tell I was still upset, but he made no real effort to make things right. In his mind, the handful of reassuring words he'd offered tonight were already more patience than he'd shown me in months.

Eventually, he loosened his tie and headed upstairs to shower.

Not long after he disappeared, the encrypted phone lying on the coffee table lit up.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

Its screen kept flashing with incoming notifications until it became impossible to ignore.

I reached over and unlocked it.

There was no passcode.

He had never bothered to hide anything because he had always believed I trusted him enough not to look.

The notifications came from a secure cloud folder connected to the family's private server.

Someone had just finished uploading old files.

I opened it.

Hundreds of photographs.

Hundreds of videos.

Every one of them featured Damiano and Sofia.

Some showed them attending Mafia banquets together, dressed in matching black evening wear that made them look every bit like a couple receiving guests on behalf of the family.

Others had been taken during overseas business trips. They wandered through unfamiliar streets shoulder to shoulder, laughing over cups of coffee, shopping together in luxury boutiques, or sharing late-night meals after meetings with foreign syndicates.

There were even candid photographs taken inside the Valenti estate itself.

Sofia was adjusting Damiano's tie before a Commission meeting.

Damiano was helping her fasten a diamond necklace before a charity gala hosted by the city's most influential families.

In every picture, his expression was patient.

Relaxed.

Warm.

The ache spreading through my chest grew heavier with each swipe across the screen.

So this was the truth.

The impatience he always reserved for me simply didn't exist when it came to Sofia.

I remembered dragging him through Milan's fashion district two years ago because I wanted him to help me choose a wedding dress.

He hadn't lasted fifteen minutes.

"They're all white," he'd said with obvious irritation. "Pick whichever one you want."

That dismissive expression remained as clear in my memory as if it had happened yesterday.

Back then, I convinced myself he simply hated shopping.

Now I knew better.

He had never hated shopping.

He had only hated doing it with me.

"What are you doing?"

His voice cut through the silence.

I looked up.

Damiano had already come downstairs, his hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled to his forearms.

The moment he saw the phone in my hand, his expression darkened.

He crossed the room in three long strides and snatched it away with enough force that I lost my balance.

The back of my knees struck the edge of the sofa before I fell against it.

"Have you completely forgotten the rules?" he demanded.

His voice was low, but every word carried the authority of the Valenti family's underboss.

"Those files contain confidential family records."

His grip had scraped across the back of my hand, leaving a thin cut where the sharp edge of his watch had caught my skin.

A bead of blood slowly surfaced.

I lowered my eyes to it.

The truth was, even if he hadn't walked in just then, I wouldn't have kept looking.

I'd already seen enough.

Months ago, I'd stumbled across that same cloud folder by accident.

Since then, there had been countless sleepless nights when I secretly opened it after he'd fallen asleep beside me.

I watched every photograph.

Every video.

Every smiling glance they thought no one else had noticed.

By dawn, my eyes would be swollen from crying.

Yet when Damiano woke, I'd smile and pretend I'd simply slept badly.

Looking back now, I could only laugh at myself.

For seven years, I had been the only one chasing this relationship.

Every phone call began with me.

Every apology came from me.

Every compromise was mine to make.

Most of the time, he answered with a few distracted words before ending the conversation because another meeting, another shipment, or another family matter demanded his attention.

I treasured those scraps of affection as though they were enough.

In the end, all I'd done was make a fool of myself.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

"I won't touch your phone again."

He didn't speak.

It was obvious he'd expected tears.

Or another argument.

Not surrender.

After a long silence, he finally said, "Those pictures..."

He hesitated before continuing.

"Sofia hates attending public events alone. The family kept pairing us together because it looked better politically."

His tone softened.

"Before Marco died, he asked me to look after her if anything ever happened to him."

"Don't overthink it."

I simply listened.

Marco.

Sofia's older brother.

He and Damiano had grown up together inside the Valenti organization.

Years ago, when Damiano was still nothing more than a captain overseeing one of the family's dock operations, Marco had taken a bullet meant for him during negotiations with a rival syndicate.

He died before the medical team reached the warehouse.

With his last breath, he had made Damiano promise that Sofia would never be left alone.

Damiano had kept that promise.

Far better than he'd ever kept the promises he'd made to me.

What had started as protection gradually became habit.

Then responsibility.

Then something that occupied every corner of his life until there was no room left for the woman he was supposed to marry.

I drew in a slow breath.

Only three days remained before I returned to the Vitale family.

There was no point pretending anymore.

"You don't have to explain anything to me," I said softly.

"The truth is..." I lifted my eyes to meet his. "If you decided to marry Sofia instead, I think that would probably make everyone happier."

The slap came without warning.

My head snapped to one side.

The sting spread across my cheek almost instantly.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Damiano's voice thundered through the room.

"Sofia is my brother's sister. I've looked after her because I gave Marco my word."

His eyes blazed with anger.

"Do you really think she'd betray his memory like that?"

My cheek burned.

I slowly turned back to face him.

Of course she wouldn't.

She wasn't the pathetic woman who had spent seven years believing love alone could earn a place beside the man she loved.

That fool had always been me.

My vision blurred.

Before the tears could fall, I caught the flicker of regret that crossed Damiano's face.

His shoulders stiffened.

"I..."

His voice lost its edge.

"I shouldn't have hit you."

"I'm sorry."

For one brief moment, I wanted to tell him everything.

Damiano...

I'm leaving.

The words rose to my throat.

Before I could say them, the encrypted phone in his hand vibrated sharply.

The screen lit up with Sofia's name.

He answered immediately.

Her frightened voice came through the speaker before he could switch to private mode.

"Damiano..." she whispered between shaky breaths. "I had that nightmare again... about Marco's death."

"I'm scared."

"Can you come over?"

"I don't want to stay here by myself."

"Don't be scared."

Damiano's voice softened the instant he heard Sofia on the other end of the encrypted line.

"I'm on my way."

Whatever guilt he'd felt moments earlier vanished without a trace. He grabbed the first dress shirt within reach, shrugged into his jacket, holstered the pistol he never left behind, and strode toward the front door of the villa.

His movements were hurried, almost impatient.

Only when his hand rested on the doorknob did he seem to remember that I was still standing in the living room.

He paused and glanced back.

"Weren't you going to tell me something?"

By then, every word I had wanted to say had already been swallowed.

"It can wait," I replied quietly. "We'll talk when you get back."

He gave a brief nod before disappearing into the night.

I never saw him again that day.

The next morning, the other side of the bed remained perfectly untouched.

He hadn't come home.

Only three days remained before I returned to the Vitale family, and there was no point continuing to work for the Valenti organization.

For the past several years, I'd managed one of the family's underground medical facilities, treating wounded soldiers after firefights, stitching up men who couldn't risk going to a public hospital, and keeping more secrets than I could count.

That morning, I submitted my resignation to the chief physician who oversaw the clinic.

He tried to persuade me to reconsider.

I simply smiled and declined.

After clearing out my office, I packed the designer clothes and jewelry I no longer intended to keep. Most had been gifts from Damiano over the years.

I arranged for them to be donated to the younger widows and children of men who had died serving the Valenti family.

As I carried the boxes toward the courtyard, voices drifted from the neighboring villa.

I looked over instinctively.

Several movers employed by the family were unloading custom-made Italian furniture from armored delivery trucks. Others carried marble sculptures, antique cabinets, and crates of expensive artwork through the front entrance while a team of interior designers checked everything against architectural plans.

Among them, Damiano stood out immediately.

One arm rested lightly around Sofia's shoulders while he calmly directed the workers, making sure every piece was placed exactly where she wanted it.

He inspected the security cameras himself.

Adjusted the positions of the guards.

Even reminded someone to replace the bulletproof glass in the upstairs windows before sunset.

That meticulous side of him wasn't new.

Years ago, when we first renovated the villa we were supposed to spend our married life in, he'd personally reviewed every blueprint, every security route, every hidden panic room, and every reinforced wall.

He'd smiled at me then.

"A home should be the one place where you never have to feel unsafe."

Now the house we'd built together barely contained any trace of him.

"Miss Vitale?"

An elderly woman from the family charity foundation approached with a warm smile.

"Are these the things you wanted to donate?"

Her voice pulled me back to reality.

Before I could answer, Sofia stepped out of the neighboring villa.

She wore one of Damiano's oversized shirts, the sleeves rolled carelessly to her wrists.

"I've been having nightmares every night," she said with an embarrassed smile. "Damiano was worried about me staying alone, so he bought this villa for me."

She looked around happily.

"Now we're neighbors."

She blinked innocently, every bit the helpless young woman everyone believed her to be.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never bring myself to like her.

I turned to leave.

I had barely taken a few steps when a frightened cry rang out behind me.

Sofia suddenly stumbled backward as though someone had shoved her.

Her lower back slammed into the sharp corner of a heavy wooden crate one of the movers had just set down.

She gasped in pain.

Before anyone else could react, Damiano rushed forward.

Without sparing me so much as a glance, he wrapped an arm around Sofia's waist, carefully checking where she'd been hurt.

The concern on his face was unmistakable.

"Viviana."

His voice carried unmistakable disappointment.

"Has your jealousy really gone this far?"

I stared at him.

For a moment, I genuinely wondered whether I'd heard him correctly.

Beside him, Sofia immediately shook her head.

"No, don't blame her."

She forced a weak smile despite the tears filling her eyes.

"This is my fault. Maybe I never should've moved here."

"I've only caused trouble for everyone."

Damiano's expression softened at once.

"Don't say that."

He gently squeezed her hand.

"You're family."

A dull ache settled behind my eyes.

Watching the two of them repeat the same performance had become exhausting.

I turned toward my own front door.

Before I could step inside, Damiano caught the door with one hand.

"Apologize to Sofia."

The last thread of patience inside me snapped.

"For what?"

My voice remained calm.

"For something I didn't do?"

"You've targeted her before."

His gaze turned cold.

"This wouldn't be the first time."

A bitter laugh escaped me.

Damiano had never been interested in the truth.

He believed whatever fit the version of events he wanted to accept.

Sofia lowered her head like the perfect victim.

"Please..."

Her voice trembled.

"Don't fight because of me."

"I just lost my balance."

Damiano tightened his grip around her shoulders.

When he looked back at me, there wasn't the slightest trace of warmth left in his eyes.

"I never realized you could be this petty."

"You can't even tolerate someone who's already lost so much."

Each word landed like another knife twisting deeper into an old wound.

Even so...

I refused to apologize.

Sofia quietly complained that her back still hurt.

Without another word, Damiano slipped one arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms as though she weighed nothing.

He carried her straight toward the family's private medical clinic.

I watched until they disappeared beyond the gates.

Only then did I remember I had intended to go there myself.

For months, sleep had become something I could only remember.

Night after night, I lay awake until sunrise, unable to remember when the insomnia had first begun.

The prescription sedatives the clinic had given me no longer worked.

I wanted another examination before leaving the Valenti family for good.

The underground clinic was quieter than usual that morning.

After collecting a new prescription from the chief physician, I stepped into the lobby.

Almost immediately, I saw Damiano and Sofia again.

I wasn't surprised.

This was the Valenti family's private hospital. Everyone with enough status came here.

Sofia leaned comfortably against Damiano while he carried the medication the doctors had prepared for her, listening patiently as the physician explained how often she should take each one.

As they walked through the lobby, people instinctively stepped aside.

Several wives of high-ranking capos watched them with unconcealed envy.

One heavily pregnant woman gently rested a hand over her stomach before smiling wistfully at the man beside her.

"Look at that," she whispered.

"His wife is so lucky."

"If my husband cared for me half as much as Mr. Valenti cares for his fiancée, I'd have nothing left to ask for."

Sofia lowered her head shyly, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks, while Damiano remained completely oblivious to the way everyone around them was looking at the two of them.

We crossed paths outside the entrance of the Valenti family's private medical center.

She was still in his arms.

I intended to walk past them without saying a word, but Sofia shifted uncomfortably against his chest, her face flushing an even deeper shade of pink.

"Damiano... you can put me down now."

He frowned.

"The doctor said your back needs to rest. Stop moving."

Only then did he notice me.

"What are you doing here?" His brows knit together. "Are you sick?"

I raised the paper bag containing my medication.

"I've been having trouble sleeping."

For a moment, he didn't speak.

Then he said quietly, "I'll have someone bring fresh lavender to the villa. Put it beside your bed. It might help."

It almost sounded like concern.

He looked as though he wanted to say something else.

Before he could, Sofia suddenly winced and instinctively grabbed the front of his shirt.

At that exact moment, the lights throughout the hospital flickered violently.

The entire building lurched.

A deafening explosion echoed somewhere outside, followed almost immediately by the piercing scream of the emergency alarm.

Then everything went dark.

The backup generators hadn't kicked in.

Every light inside the corridor went out at once.

Someone shouted that the estate's main power station had been attacked.

Another voice barked orders for all security personnel to take defensive positions.

My breathing caught in my throat.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I had crouched against the cold marble wall, my entire body trembling uncontrollably.

I had always been terrified of darkness.

Ever since I was kidnapped as a child by one of our family's enemies and locked inside a shipping container for nearly three days, I couldn't bear being trapped in unlit spaces.

Damiano knew that better than anyone.

"Viviana?"

His voice echoed somewhere nearby.

"Viviana..."

"Are you okay?"

"I..."

My voice shook so badly I could barely force the word out.

Silence followed.

Then I heard him speak again.

"Sofia, let me put you down for a second. Viviana's afraid of—"

Before he could finish, Sofia clutched him tighter.

"But I'm scared too, Damiano."

Her voice trembled pitifully.

"Please don't leave me."

After that...

He never called my name again.

Every gentle reassurance.

Every quiet promise.

Every comforting word.

They were all meant for Sofia.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, my palms damp with cold sweat as I struggled to steady my breathing.

This wasn't the first time.

Years ago, Damiano and I had been caught in the middle of a gunfight during a meeting between the Valenti family and a rival syndicate.

An explosion had collapsed part of the underground tunnel beneath the old winery where negotiations were taking place.

The emergency lights had failed.

We'd been trapped in absolute darkness.

Back then, fear had stolen my voice.

I could only shake helplessly.

Damiano had pulled me against his chest without hesitation.

He'd wrapped his suit jacket around my shoulders, even though it was soaked with dust and blood.

He'd spent hours talking to me, stroking my hair, keeping me calm until the rescue team finally dug us out.

Just...

As he was comforting Sofia now.

"Damiano..."

The darkness weakened every wall I had spent months building around my heart.

Warm tears slid silently down my face.

For one foolish second...

I wished he'd come back.

Instead, I heard his quiet voice.

"Sofia's injured."

The tiny spark of hope inside me disappeared.

I lowered my head and waited silently until the generators finally roared back to life.

One by one, the lights flickered on.

When the elevators resumed operating and the security lockdown was lifted, I walked out of the hospital without looking back.

Even after returning to the villa, my heartbeat refused to settle.

My mother had already sent several encrypted files through the Vitale family's private communication network.

Each contained a different wedding gown commissioned for my marriage to Leonardo.

I couldn't bring myself to open any of them.

Instead, I sat beside the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the afternoon sunlight slowly crawl across the hardwood floor.

It wasn't until evening that Damiano finally came home.

He carried a bundle of fresh lavender in one hand and a takeout box from my favorite restaurant in the other.

"I brought dinner."

I opened the container.

Inside was creamy lobster bisque.

For several long seconds, I simply stared at it.

Damiano had forgotten.

I'd developed a severe shellfish allergy when I was eight years old.

Even a few bites would leave my body covered in painful hives.

Only then did he notice my silence.

A trace of embarrassment crossed his face.

"I forgot."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"You haven't eaten yet."

"Go ahead while it's still hot."

I lowered my eyes.

Without saying a word, I picked up the spoon and slowly finished every last mouthful.

Not long afterward, angry red welts spread across my neck and arms.

I pretended not to notice.

"Come home for dinner tomorrow."

My voice remained calm.

"It's your birthday."

He looked genuinely surprised.

After a brief silence, he nodded.

"I'll be back."

I quietly stood and retrieved my allergy medication from the cabinet.

Cooking had never been my greatest talent.

The only dish Damiano had ever sincerely praised was the handmade pasta I prepared for him every year on his birthday, following an old Vitale family recipe my grandmother had taught me.

That night, however, no matter how many times I started over, I couldn't get it right.

Every batch fell apart.

Rather than throw them away, I ate them myself.

As darkness settled over the villa, I watched the hands of the antique clock inch toward midnight.

I'd already made my decision.

Once Damiano came home and finished his birthday dinner...

I'd leave.

This time...

Forever.

But he never returned.

Instead, my phone vibrated.

A message from Damiano appeared.

Sofia burned her hand making dinner. I'm taking her back to the hospital.

Don't wait up. Eat first.

His lies...

Had never been particularly convincing.

I quietly opened another encrypted file someone inside the Valenti family had anonymously sent me earlier that evening.

A video began to play.

Damiano and Sofia stood side by side before a lavish birthday dinner inside one of the family's private restaurants.

Candles flickered across the table.

Someone cheered as Sofia fed him the first slice of cake.

Beneath the table, their fingers remained intertwined.

Both of them were smiling.

My phone vibrated again.

Viviana?

Another message from Damiano.

Did you see my text?

I closed my eyes.

Then I typed my reply.

It's fine.

Take your time.

After sending the message, I emptied the untouched birthday dinner into the trash.

Damiano no longer loved me.

Perhaps letting him go would finally free us both.

I picked up the luggage I'd packed days earlier and quietly walked out of the villa.

Before leaving the Valenti estate, I uploaded every photograph, every surveillance clip, and every security recording that documented Damiano's growing intimacy with Sofia onto the family's encrypted internal network—a system accessible to every captain, consigliere, and blood relative within the organization.

If I was leaving...

I wouldn't leave quietly.

When my car finally crossed the heavily guarded gates of the estate, I sent Damiano one last message.

Happy birthday.

After a long pause, I typed two final words.

Goodbye, Damiano.

I never mentioned canceling our engagement.

After seven years together, we'd never legally registered our marriage, never exchanged vows before either family, and never signed the alliance contract that would've united our two Mafia dynasties.

There was nothing left to dissolve.

Not even the two children I'd given up because he'd insisted the timing wasn't right had ever changed that.

I was about to block his number forever.

Before I could press the button, my phone lit up.

Damiano Valenti calling...

The Don Begged His Wife Back

Fri, 25 Sep 2026 02:28:10 +0800

I saw her in my chair before I saw anything else.

Isabella Romano, sitting where I'd sat for six anniversaries in a row. Emerald silk. Her hand resting on my husband's arm like it had always belonged there. She was laughing at something he'd said. He was laughing too, the real kind, the kind I hadn't gotten out of him in years.

I stood in the doorway and counted to three. Nobody looked up. Not one person in a room of two hundred. That told me everything I needed to know about how long this had been going on, and how many people already knew.

Then Alessandro saw me.

Something crossed his face — not guilt. Alessandro didn't do guilt. It was closer to the look of a man realizing he'd double-booked a meeting and would now have to be charming about it.

He got up anyway. Crossed the room. Kissed my cheek, dry and quick. Same cologne I bought him for our third anniversary. I wondered if he even remembered that, or if it had just become the cologne he wore.

"Valentina." A beat. "You look beautiful."

"It's our anniversary." I said it flat. Not a question. A fact I was setting down on the table between us, to see what he'd do with it.

"I know." No flinch. He never flinched — flinching would have meant admitting there was something worth flinching about. "Isabella just got back into the city. Made sense to combine things."

Combine things. As if my marriage were a scheduling conflict he'd resolved efficiently, on his own, without needing to consult me.

Isabella rose too, unhurried, and took both my hands in hers like we were old friends instead of two women who'd met exactly twice, a decade ago, before she vanished to Milan and Alex simply stopped saying her name out loud. Her hands were warm. Her eyes were doing the math on me.

"Valentina. It's been so long." A pause, timed like a knife finding the gap between ribs. "Alex has told me so much about you."

I doubted that. Alessandro didn't talk about me. He talked around me — to his capos, his lawyers, the men who ran his ports and his silence — and I had spent six years learning to live in the gaps of his sentences, doing the work nobody thanked me for so the empire kept breathing.

"All good things, I hope," I said. Light. Easy. The voice of a wife with nothing to fear.

I'd built that voice from nothing. It might be the finest thing I've ever made.

Alessandro waved me toward the table. A third chair had been wedged in at an angle, set back a few inches from the other two — the way you'd seat a cousin nobody quite remembered inviting.

"Sit. We're about to order."

I sat.

A waiter filled a glass I had no intention of drinking. Alessandro turned back to Isabella mid-sentence, already deep in some story about a summer in Palermo. I'd never heard it before. Twenty years of marriage into his family, and there was apparently a whole version of him I'd never been introduced to.

The room filled in around us. Capos and their wives. Cousins twice removed. The accountant whose entire career was a scheme I'd built from scratch and quietly let Alessandro take credit for, because that was the arrangement, because that had always been the arrangement.

Every one of them kept glancing toward the head of the table. Toward her. With a deference that should have been mine, that had been mine, for six years running.

They already knew. Somehow the whole room had agreed in advance how tonight would go, and I was the only person who'd walked in without a copy of the script.

Near midnight, Alessandro stood to give a toast. Two hundred people rose with him, glasses lifting like it was rehearsed, and maybe it was. He looked everywhere in that room except at his wife.

"Six years ago," he began, and for one stupid, humiliating second I let myself think he might actually say something true. "This family made an alliance that's served us well."

His eyes moved. Landed on her.

Something in his face opened that I hadn't seen directed at me in longer than I wanted to admit.

"But some bonds don't need a contract," he said. "Some things were always going to find their way home."

He raised his glass higher.

"To Isabella. Welcome back to where you belong."

The room drank. The room cheered — low, warm, the sound of a family closing ranks around a story they'd already decided to believe, whether or not it was true, whether or not it cost me anything to hear it.

I drank too. Refusing would have made a scene, and I don't make scenes. Not in public. Not ever, not once, in six years.

Later, once the band had started and three cousins had pulled Isabella onto the dance floor, Alessandro leaned in close enough that his breath moved the hair at my temple.

"Don't make a scene tonight," he murmured. Gently. That was almost the worst part — how gently he said it, like he was doing me a favor by warning me at all. "Isabella's family. People are watching."

I turned my head just enough to look at him. Six years of memorizing that face, every line of it, every tell — and for the first time, I found I couldn't read a single thing there.

"Of course, husband."

I smiled the smile I'd rehearsed in the mirror an hour earlier. I kissed his cheek. I excused myself to the powder room with the unhurried grace of a woman who had absolutely nothing left to prove to anyone in that building.

In the marble quiet, alone, the party's laughter bleeding faintly through the wall, I looked down at my left hand.

I twisted the ring once around my finger.

And I took it off.

I left the party at half past midnight, alone, in a car I called myself. I told the driver I had a headache. That part wasn't a lie. Six years of marriage had given me a very precise headache, the kind that lives behind the left eye and only flares when you have to smile at something that isn't funny.

I let myself in through the side door, the one that doesn't wake the staff, and climbed the stairs in the dark the way I'd done a thousand times. I know this house by touch. I know which floorboard on the landing complains, which hinge needs oil, which shadows belong.

I stopped outside the bedroom door because the light was already on.

Alessandro wasn't due back for hours. He never left his own parties before the last capo did — some old rule about never being the first man in the room who wants to sleep. I stood still and listened. A woman's voice, low, on the other side of the door. Then a laugh. Isabella's.

I opened the door without knocking. It's still my bedroom.

Isabella was standing at the window in one of Alessandro's shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbow, legs bare in the light off the harbor. She turned unhurried, the way a woman turns when she's already decided she has nothing to be embarrassed about.

"Valentina." Warm. Easy. Same smile as the club. "I'm so sorry — Alex said I could freshen up here before my car came. I spilled wine all over my dress downstairs."

Reasonable enough, on its own. That was always the trouble with Isabella. Every single thing she did could be defended by itself. It was only the sum of them that told the truth.

My eyes went past the shirt, past the legs, to her throat.

The necklace.

Three teardrop diamonds on platinum, the center stone cut from a raw diamond Alessandro's grandfather smuggled out of Sierra Leone before anyone called it conflict trade. Commissioned from a jeweler in Antwerp who owed the family a favor it took eleven years to repay. Alessandro fastened it around my neck on our wedding night, in this room, and told me — the one time he ever came close to saying something like poetry to me — that some things were made to only ever belong to one person.

It lives in my safe. Only Alessandro and I know the combination.

It was hanging around someone else's throat.

I didn't raise my voice. I learned a long time ago what happens to the women in this family who raise their voices.

"That's mine," I said.

Her hand drifted to the diamonds, almost fond. "Oh — this? Alex let me try it on. He said the setting reminded him of something his grandmother wore. Wanted to see it against dark hair, I think." A small laugh. "I'll give it right back."

She didn't give it right back.

She reached for the dress on the chaise and started changing instead, unhurried, still wearing it, like the conversation was already over.

Alessandro appeared in the doorway a minute later, tie loose, jacket over one arm, cigar smoke on him. He looked at all of it — his wife rigid in the doorway, his childhood sweetheart half-dressed by the window, his grandmother's diamonds against skin that wasn't mine — and nothing in his face moved.

"You're back early," he said. Mild as weather.

"Isabella is wearing my necklace."

"I know." He crossed to the bar cart, poured two fingers of something dark. "I told her she could. It's just a necklace, Valentina."

Just a necklace. As if it hadn't taken eleven years and a favor and his grandfather's hands. As if he hadn't looked me in the eye six years ago and told me it belonged to one person.

"Take it off," I said.

Not a request. The first order I'd given in this house in longer than I could remember.

Isabella's fingers went to the clasp — and stopped. She looked past me to Alessandro. Waiting for a cue, the way a well-trained dog waits to be told to sit.

He took a long swallow of his drink. "It's late," he said, to no one. "Isabella, your car's probably here."

He never told her to take it off.

She left twenty minutes later, dressed, diamonds still at her throat, and kissed his cheek at the door murmuring something about tonight being lovely. I didn't stay to hear the rest.

Alessandro went to his study without a word to me. No apology. No explanation. He just left, the way he always leaves the parts of our marriage he finds tedious.

I stood alone in the room where I wore white on the happiest night of a life I was starting to understand had never really been mine.

I should have gone to bed.

Instead, forty minutes later, I was standing outside the guest room where Isabella's luggage had been stored — two trunks, monogrammed, waiting to be sent to the townhouse Alessandro had quietly leased for her downtown. I'd learned about that townhouse a week ago, from a ledger I wasn't supposed to have access to.

I told myself I was only checking for the necklace.

The first trunk held silk, perfume, a stack of letters in a hand I didn't know. The second held, tucked in a lined case at the bottom, a small velvet box.

Inside: a second necklace. Identical in every detail to the one in my safe. Three teardrop diamonds. Same platinum. Same unmistakable cut from the same mine.

Except this one had a hidden clasp along the back of the largest stone — so fine you'd never find it unless you already knew, from years of studying every gift Alessandro ever gave you, exactly where to look.

My fingers found it without thinking.

It sprang open. A small photograph slid into my palm, worn soft at the edges — the kind of photo a person carries, not the kind a person frames.

Alessandro. Younger. Unguarded. Laughing in a way I had never once seen in six years of marriage.

His arm was around Isabella's waist.

The date on the back, in pencil: eight years ago.

Two full years before he ever put a ring on my hand.

I didn't sleep. I sat with the photograph until sunrise, and by the time the house woke up, I'd made a decision: I was done pretending I hadn't noticed six years of my own erasure.

By morning, Isabella had moved into the west guest suite. "Temporary," Alessandro said, "until the townhouse is ready." By noon, she was sitting in on the Brooklyn meeting — a meeting built on a structure I designed six years ago — giving opinions on distribution routes like she'd always owned that chair.

I found Alessandro in his study that evening. Ledgers open on the desk. My work, in someone else's handwriting now.

"Isabella sat in on the Brooklyn meeting," I said.

"She has good instincts. Her family ran shipping out of Naples for twenty years." He didn't look up. "Useful, having someone who understands logistics."

I understand logistics. I built the logistics she's sitting inside of.

"I've run the Brooklyn accounts since Rossi," I said. "You never asked me to sit in."

He looked up then. Gentle, which made it worse. "You're my wife, Valentina. You have a beautiful house, anything you want, my name." He set down his pen. "You should be grateful. I gave you a life."

I could have let it go. I'd let it go for six years.

Instead, something in me finally said it out loud.

"And I gave you an empire."

He laughed. Not cruelly — fond, disbelieving, the laugh you give a child who's said something sweetly absurd. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and for just a second, some old part of me still wanted that to mean something.

"You've had a long night," he said. "Get some sleep."

He didn't believe me. Not for a second. And that told me everything I needed to know about the six years he thought I'd spent doing nothing but existing beautifully beside him.

I let him kiss my forehead. I walked out without another word.

It was only in the hallway, alone, that I let my hands shake — because he wasn't wrong that I'd earned every one of those ledgers. He was wrong about what that meant.

I was twenty-one when they married me off, a name attached to a treaty. I never asked for love. But somewhere in the second year, I gave it anyway — not to the Black Don the world was afraid of, but to the man who talked to me at 2 a.m. about his father, about the weight of a name he never chose. I kept his secrets for that man. I did his math at two in the morning for that man. I stayed quiet while Rossi took a bonus for a theft I found, while a nameless assistant got credit for a structure I built on hotel stationery, while a dozen small wars got won by a woman nobody in that house ever thought to thank.

I thought loyalty like that eventually got noticed.

I was halfway up the stairs, still furious with myself for hoping, when I heard his phone ring in the study behind me. His voice went low. Clipped. The voice he only used for things that mattered.

I should have kept walking.

Instead I stopped on the landing, in the dark, and listened.

"—no, I understand the concern," Alessandro said. "If Valentina's been in contact with the De Lucas, I need to know before Thursday. Every conversation, every message, going back a year."

A pause. Whatever the voice on the other end said made his tone drop several degrees.

"Then find out. And if it's true—"

He stopped.

The silence stretched long enough that my heart forgot how to beat.

The club dinner had been the rehearsal. Tonight was supposed to be the real thing.

Alessandro kept his true anniversary separate from the family's calendar — quieter, just the two of them, dinner at home, candles instead of chandeliers. Six years of that tradition, and it had always felt like the one thing that belonged only to us.

I dressed for it anyway. Ivory this time, not blood-red. Told myself the color didn't mean anything.

Table set by seven. Two places, the good silver, the same Barolo we shared the night he proposed. Candles lit by eight. By nine, the wax had pooled onto the tablecloth and I was still sitting there, back straight, hands folded, waiting the way I'd learned to wait for a man who never once explained his absences.

At nine-forty, my phone lit up. A text from a cousin I barely speak to: You should see this. Alex is here.

A photo. Isabella's welcome party, at the club, the same room where I'd taken off my ring three nights before. The same cousins. The same wives who'd cheered the toast. And Alessandro at the center of it, her hand tucked through his arm, both of them laughing at something out of frame.

He hadn't mentioned a second party. He hadn't mentioned it at all.

I sat with the candles until they burned out on their own. I didn't cry. Somewhere in the last three days, the part of me that used to cry over this man had gone quiet, and something colder had taken its place.

He came home past midnight, tie loose, the unhurried walk of a man pleased with his evening. He found me at the dead table, wine untouched, and had the grace to look briefly uncertain.

"You waited up," he said. Like it was a kindness I'd performed.

"It's our anniversary." Second time that week I'd said it. Smaller now. Worn thin.

"I know. Sorry — it ran long. Isabella's party." Said the way you'd mention traffic. Then, brightening: "I got you something, actually. Didn't forget."

He set a small box in front of me, pleased with himself, like a man closing an account.

Perfume. Pale gold in a narrow crystal bottle. A brand I recognized instantly — not because I wear it, but because I'd smelled it three nights ago, on Isabella's wrist, while she leaned in to whisper something in his ear on the dance floor.

The exact same bottle.

I understood, with a clarity that felt almost peaceful, that he hadn't chosen this for me at all. He'd told an assistant to buy two of whatever Isabella liked, and it never once occurred to him that his wife might want to smell like herself.

I didn't raise my voice. I'd stopped expecting that to work a long time ago.

"Alex." I set the box down between the dead candles. "I want to ask you something. Answer quickly. Don't think about it."

He sat back, loosening his tie further, amused. "All right."

"If you had to choose between me and Isabella — who would you choose?"

I watched his face. Six years of studying every version of it, and I watched now for even a flicker of hesitation. One second where the question cost him something.

There wasn't one.

"Isabella," he said. Immediately. Almost gently, like he was doing me a favor by not making me wait.

The silence after lasted maybe a second. It felt longer.

Then I smiled — not the party smile, a new one, quieter, that didn't reach my eyes and wasn't trying to.

"Thank you," I said.

He blinked. Whatever he'd braced for, it wasn't that. "Thank you?"

"For answering honestly." I stood, smoothed the ivory silk at my hips, picked the perfume box back up, and set it down again — precisely, in the center of the ruined tablecloth. "You have no idea how much easier that makes everything."

I left him there, still half-smiling in confusion, already reaching for his phone.

I didn't go to our bedroom. I went to the small office off the library that had always, technically, been mine — the room Alessandro never bothered with because he found filing tedious — and I locked the door. First time in six years.

I sat at the desk. Opened the bottom drawer, the one with the false back I'd built into it myself, years ago, for documents my husband didn't know existed.

And I started a list.

Everything I'd need. Everything I'd take. Everyone who owed me a debt they didn't know I intended to collect.

Three lines in, my phone buzzed once on the desk beside me.

Unknown number. No name.

I know who you really are. And I know what he's planning to do about it. We need to talk — before Thursday.

I didn't answer the unknown number that night. I read the message four times, memorized it, deleted the thread, and turned the phone face-down on the desk like that alone could keep it from following me into sleep. Whoever he was, whatever he knew, he'd still know it in the morning. Some fires need to be put out in order.

The lawyer came first.

Not one of the family's lawyers — I wouldn't trust any of them to keep my name out of a conversation for longer than it took to walk to a phone. I remembered a woman from a charity board I used to sit on, before Alessandro decided the board wasn't worth my time. Colette Fairweather. Quiet, expensive practice out of a townhouse in the Village. She owed me one favor, from a night nobody else remembered, when I made a very specific problem in her own marriage disappear and never mentioned it again.

We met on a Tuesday, in a back room of a restaurant Alessandro had never once set foot in, under a name that wasn't Moretti.

"You understand what you're asking." Colette slid a folder across the table. Inside: a full separation agreement, assets itemized, a clean legal exit built to survive a man who doesn't believe in clean exits. "Men like your husband don't sign these. They don't recognize the version of the story where their wife has a lawyer."

"I don't need him to sign it," I said. "I need it to exist."

She studied me a moment, nodded once, and didn't ask why.

I kept the folder in the false-backed drawer of my office, next to the list I'd started three nights before, next to a second folder — bank documents, property records, a set of numbered accounts I'd built quietly over six years for no reason I'd ever admitted to myself until now. I'd always been careful. I just hadn't understood, until this week, what I'd been careful for.

I should have locked the drawer better.

I came down for coffee four days after the club dinner and found Alessandro in the office. The false back pried open. The folder on the desk in front of him. His face doing something I'd genuinely never seen it do before — not anger yet, something closer to disbelief, like the numbers on the page belonged to a language he hadn't known his wife could speak.

"What is this," he said. Not really a question.

I stood in the doorway and decided, all at once, to stop pretending. "You can read, Alex. I assume you know exactly what it is."

He held up the agreement, Colette's careful legal language suddenly absurd in his hand. "A divorce agreement. You're divorcing me."

"I'm preparing to."

"You had a lawyer draft this. Without telling me." He set it down, and there it was, finally — the anger, arriving late but arriving completely, cold and total the way everything about him is cold and total. "Behind my back."

"You had another woman wear my necklace behind my back," I said. "I assumed we were both capable of that kind of privacy."

Something flickered across his face — not quite guilt, still not guilt, but closer to it than I'd seen in years. Then it folded back under the certainty that carried him through every version of himself I've ever known. He crossed the room, close enough that I had to tilt my chin to hold his eyes.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?"

"Somewhere you can't follow."

He laughed — a real one this time, rougher than the dismissive laugh from the study, the laugh of a man hearing a joke so absurd it circled back to funny. "Valentina. Look at me." He gestured at the house, the name over every door in the city. "There is nowhere in this city I can't find you. Nowhere in this country. You've never had to survive one day without my name protecting you. You wouldn't last a week."

He meant it kindly. That was the useful part. He'd spent six years so certain of what I was — decorative, dependent, disposable — that he never once prepared for what I actually am.

I didn't argue. I let him take the folder, tuck it under his arm like a confiscated toy, walk out with the satisfied posture of a man who believed the matter closed.

Watching the door shut behind him, I thought: that's exactly why I won't stay in this city.

I waited until I heard his car leave — a meeting downtown, his assistant had said, something about the Brooklyn shipments that would keep him out until evening — then went back to the drawer. Colette had insisted, out of long habit, on making copies of everything, twice. The originals were gone now, his trophy, proof of his wife's small, containable rebellion.

The copies were exactly where I'd hidden them, in the one place his certainty had never once thought to check.

I was reaching for them when my phone buzzed. The same unknown number.

He took the papers. I know. That's not the plan you should be worried about.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Thursday isn't a business meeting, Valentina. It's a vote. And your name is on the agenda.

Kneel, Mafia Boss, Your Wife Is Gone

Fri, 25 Sep 2026 02:09:39 +0800

For five years, I played the spoiled wife of Ricci Santiago. The mafia boss of BlackSword Organization.

No one knew I was actually the most feared mafia heiress in Naples. I hid my identity because Ricci liked obedient women. He wanted a wife who stayed at home, smiled when he came back, and never asked too many questions.

So I hid everything.

And for five years, I truly loved him.

Then he fell for Valerie, one of BlackSword’s best assassins.

The first time I caught them together, I found Valerie in Ricci’s private bedroom, wrapped in his shirt, while Ricci stood beside the bed fastening his belt.

Ricci barely looked guilty.

“She has a fever,” he said calmly. “I'm just warming her up. Don't misunderstand.”

I believed him.

The second time happened during a mission.

I opened the safehouse door and found them naked beneath the same blanket, curled against each other.

“We were drugged,” Ricci said. “Neither of us knew what we were doing.”

I still believed him.

The third time was at my parents’ funeral.

That was when something inside me finally broke.

My parents had died unexpectedly, and I went to Naples alone to bring their ashes home. My twelve uncles held a private funeral for them, and every person there knew exactly who I was.

The eldest of my uncles placed my parents’ service pistols into my hands and said quietly, “From today onward, you’re not the little princess anymore. You’re the commander of this territory.”

I stared at the guns in my hands.

My parents were dead.

And my husband wasn’t there.

Not even once.

After the funeral, I called Ricci hundred ninety-nine times. He finally answered, sounding annoyed.

“Thalia, Valerie’s injured! She needed to go to the hospital. You called me hundred times because of a funeral? How many times do I have to tell you to grow up?”

I almost laughed.

Instead, I clenched my fingers around my phone.

“You’re my husband, Ricci. My parents died, and you couldn’t even show up. But you had time to take Valerie to the hospital?”

His voice hardened. “Don’t start this again.”

“Then what am I supposed to think? Every time I see you two, there’s another excuse. You’re always together, and then you tell me it’s nothing.”

“Because it is nothing!” he snapped. “We’re comrades. She’s one of BlackSword’s best assassins, and we’ve been through life-or-death situations together. You wouldn’t understand.”

I closed my eyes.

“You think I wouldn’t understand?”

“You’re a housewife, Thalia. You don’t know anything about this life. Just stop being so suspicious.”

I said nothing after that.

A few days later, I brought coffee to his company.

Before I could enter his office, I heard laughter from inside.

“Boss, your wife really is too pampered. She’s nothing like Valerie. Valerie can take care of herself.”

Someone laughed. “You should be careful, though. If Thalia finds out how clingy Valerie is, she might get angry.”

I stopped outside the door.

Then Ricci’s voice came through.

“Valerie’s a top assassin with her own career. She’s strong, capable, and independent. How could Thalia compare to her?” He laughed softly, “Thalia’s just a fucking parasitic vine. She can’t live without a man.”

A parasitic vine?

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

Was this really the man I’d loved for five years?

I had hidden everything for him. I thought love meant putting down my weapons and letting myself be someone’s ordinary wife. But maybe I hadn’t put down my armor.

I’d thrown away my dignity.

I wiped my tears before they could fall, then took out my encrypted phone and called a number I’d buried for five years.

It was answered almost immediately.

“Huntress? Is that really you? You’ve finally decided to come home?”

My throat tightened. “Uncle…”

I looked down at my parents’ pistols.

“I’ll be home in three days.”

“That’s wonderful! I knew you wouldn’t waste your whole life playing house with that pretty boy. Your twelve uncles have been waiting for you. We’ll send a private jet.”

“Okay.”

After I hung up, I looked back at Ricci’s office.

My heart still hurt.

But the hesitation was gone.

He wanted an obedient wife. He’d soon find out what he really married.

…

After packing all my luggage, I went straight to one of my family's nightclubs.

It was one of the businesses under my family's name, although Ricci had no idea. To him, I was just his spoiled little wife who spent his money.

Tonight, I wanted to spend mine.

I picked out a dozen sharp-looking young men from the club and took them shopping with me. They followed quietly behind me, carrying whatever I pointed at.

For years, my wardrobe had barely changed. Aprons. Gray. Black. Pale white. Long skirts and loose dresses that made me look soft, harmless, and easy to control. That was the woman Ricci liked. Obedient. Weak. Dependent.

So I became her.

I loved him enough to pretend.

But now the game was over.

My parents were dead, my marriage was nothing but a joke, and I'd finally decided to stop hiding.

The sleeping heiress was awake.

I walked out of the fitting room wearing a tailored black heiress suit. My hair was tied into a high ponytail. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looked nothing like Ricci's quiet little wife.

She looked like someone people should be afraid of.

“Young Miss, this outfit looks like it was made for you,” one of the young men said with a grin. “Honestly, you look like you're about to take over half of Naples.”

I gave him a small smile. “Not half.”

He blinked. “All of it?”

I smiled a little wider. “Smart.”

The others immediately paid the bill.

This was who I used to be. This was who I'd buried for five years.

And now she was back.

I had barely stepped outside when my phone rang.

Ricci.

“Thalia, where the hell are you?! Why aren't you home cooking? I've been waiting, and I'm fucking hungry.”

I frowned. “You're home early today?”

“Don't change the subject. Get your ass home.”

I almost laughed.

He really hadn't noticed anything.

“Fine. I'll be home soon.”

When I returned, I walked straight into our bedroom, intending to take out the divorce papers I'd prepared earlier. Before I could reach them, the bedroom door clicked open.

Valerie walked out.

Half-dressed.

“Thalia, you...” Her eyes traveled over my clothes, and her expression immediately changed. “Why are you dressed like this? Are you deliberately copying me?!”

I looked at her for a moment, then laughed softly. “I'd copy you? I've been dressing like this long before you showed up, Valerie. If anyone's copying anyone, sweetheart, it's you.”

I didn't wait for her answer. I walked past her and sat on the sofa, then looked at her calmly. “Another question. Why did you walk out of my bedroom without asking me?”

Her face tightened.

Before she could answer, Ricci finally came out.

His expression changed the moment he saw me.

For one second, his eyes lingered on me... there was surprise there. Maybe even admiration.

Then it disappeared.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull now?” he asked coldly. “Trying to dress up like this just to get my attention?”

I crossed my legs. “Would it matter if I was?”

He scoffed. “Don't start your stupid games, Thalia. Valerie's right. This doesn't suit you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You're trying too hard.”

I looked at him quietly.

How could the man who once kissed my forehead every night look at me like I was a stranger?

Ricci glanced at Valerie, and his voice immediately softened. “The heating system in her unit broke, so she's staying here for a few days. Don't make a fucking scene about it.”

Then he grabbed a coat and gently placed it around Valerie's shoulders. “You're injured, so don't push yourself. I already approved your rest, remember. I'm your boss.”

Valerie smiled. “I know, but I'm joining the Underworld's annual Blood Crown Trials. I heard Naples's new successor is participating too. She's called Huntress, and apparently she's terrifying.”

Ricci smiled. “You're the youngest model assassin in the country, especially under my care. A Huntress doesn't scare you. You've got nothing to prove to anyone.”

Then he glanced at me. “Unlike Thalia, you actually have the skills to survive in our world. She can carry a heavy box, but that's about fucking all she's good for.”

Something inside me went completely still.

So that's what he thought of me.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the divorce papers, tossing them onto his chest.

Ricci caught them, frowning. “What the hell is this?”

I stood up. “My divorce papers.”

Ricci stared at the divorce papers, completely stunned for a few seconds. Then his sneer slowly returned.

“What the hell are you talking about? Divorce? Are you seriously joking right now?” He looked me up and down. “Or did changing your clothes suddenly make you think you’re somebody important? You think you can walk away from me and live just fine without me?”

Valerie gave a soft laugh beside him.

“Thalia, you can copy my clothes if you want, but you can’t copy what makes me who I am,” she said, “I’ve worked for everything I have. I went to a prestigious university, trained with BlackSword, and learned to survive with my own hands. That’s not something a sheltered housewife can learn overnight.”

My eyes dropped to her other hand resting around Ricci’s neck.

How ridiculous.

Ricci pulled her a little closer. “If you’re doing this because you suspect me and Valerie, then stop it. She’s one of my own, one of BlackSword’s best assassins, and someone I trust with my life. Don’t drag some filthy idea into something you don’t understand!”

I didn’t answer.

There wasn’t anything left to say.

A few minutes later, perhaps because I’d gone completely quiet, Ricci finally went into the kitchen and served the soup he made himself. He filled a large bowl for Valerie first, then carefully blew on it before handing it to her.

“Careful. It’s hot. Don’t burn yourself.”

Valerie smiled sweetly. “Thanks, Ricci. You’re always taking care of me. I love it.”

“I’m supposed to. You’re injured, remember?”

Then, surprisingly, he brought another bowl and placed it in front of me. “Eat.”

I stared at the soup.

Five years ago, this would’ve made me happy. I would’ve thought, He still cares about me.

Now I only felt tired.

I looked at the man sitting across from me. This was the same man who used to remember exactly how I liked my food, who would pull a blanket over me when I fell asleep on the couch, who once held my hand and promised we’d grow old together.

When did that man disappear?

Or maybe he’d never existed at all.

I pushed the bowl away.

“Ricci, you’re such a good pretender.”

His expression changed. “What did you just say?”

I picked up the divorce papers and placed them in front of him again. “I said we’re getting divorced.”

He opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a sharp gunshot suddenly cracked through the building.

Bang!

Another shot followed, then another, and the windows shattered as BlackSword’s guards rushed toward the doors.

“Security breach!” someone screamed from the hallway.

Everything happened at once. More gunshots echoed through the building as guards drew their weapons and moved into position.

Valerie’s expression changed immediately. The softness vanished from her face.

“I’ll handle the eastern corridor.”

Ricci caught her around the waist and pulled her back against his chest. “No. Stay here. Let me handle it.”

Valerie frowned and tried to pull herself free. “Ricci, I’m your best assassin. You know I can handle this.”

“I know exactly what you can handle,” he replied, tightening his hold on her. “That’s why I’m telling you to stay.”

“Then why are you treating me like I’m helpless? I’m not your wife who does nothing at all and sits around waiting for someone to protect her.”

The words struck me harder than they should have.

Ricci didn’t even glance in my direction.

Instead, he looked down at Valerie with an expression I hadn’t seen directed at me in a very long time.

“You’re the most important person to me. So when I tell you to stay, you stay.”

I stood only a few steps away, watching them.

five years ago, at this exact table, we’d toasted our marriage. We’d bowed to heaven and earth, promised to stand beside each other through everything.

Now there were bullets flying around us, and he’d chosen someone else without even thinking.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

But my heart was already too tired to break properly.

I calmly walked to the storage cabinet and pulled out the emergency canvas bag I’d prepared weeks ago. Ricci finally noticed as I opened it and checked the contents: medical supplies, weapons, communication devices, and backup ammunition.

Everything was exactly where I’d left it.

“Thalia, what the hell are you doing?” he asked.

The gunshots didn’t stop. Then came another explosion.

BOOM!

The floor shook under our feet as part of the building’s outer wall blew apart. Smoke poured through the broken windows, alarms screamed, and BlackSword guards rushed through the corridors with their guns drawn.

Someone was attacking us.

My emergency bag was already in my hand. I checked the weapons inside, then slipped the strap over my shoulder.

Ricci was already changing into his BlackSword combat uniform, his face hard and all business now. “I’ve got an emergency deployment order,” he said to Valerie. “My team is heading to the blast zone. I’m going back to command the rescue and security teams, and you’re staying close to me. Don’t wander off.”

Valerie smiled and picked up her gun. “Of course, Ricci. You know I’d never make you worry about me.”

I almost rolled my eyes.

Crazy woman.

“I’ll go too,” I said.

Ricci stopped.

He turned around slowly, like he’d just heard the stupidest thing in his life. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

“What the fuck are you going to do there?” he snapped. “Stay at the evacuation point, Thalia. This is BlackSword business, and it’s dangerous. I don’t need you running around the blast zone and becoming another person my men have to rescue.”

I adjusted my bag. “During a bombing, sitting around waiting to die doesn’t sound very smart.”

His jaw tightened. “You really want to argue with me right now?”

Valerie stepped closer, smiling like she was being reasonable. “Let her come, Ricci. She can stay at the rescue center and help with supplies. Besides, if you leave her behind, she’ll probably just worry about you the whole time.”

Ricci looked at me for a long moment before clicking his tongue. “Fine. But you stay where my men can see you. Don’t be stupid.”

I didn’t answer.

If only he knew how many battlefields I’d walked through before I ever became his wife.

At the blast zone, everything was chaos.

Buildings were burning, cars were overturned, and people were trapped under concrete, screaming for help while BlackSword soldiers and emergency crews tried to reach them.

Then I saw Valerie.

A wounded man crawled toward her, blood covering his shirt. “Please... help me...”

Valerie stared at him before calmly raising her gun.

Bang!

The man stopped moving.

I froze.

Valerie lowered the weapon and looked at Ricci. “Let’s not make him suffer, Ricci. Look at him. He’s not going to live much longer anyway.”

Ricci glanced at the body, his expression unchanged. “You’re right. Keep moving.”

Valerie smiled.

Then another survivor cried for help.

She shot him too.

Another followed, and she wiped the blood that splashed across her cheek with two fingers, smiling like she was enjoying herself.

My stomach turned.

So this was the woman Ricci called an outstanding young assassin.

And this was the woman he chose over me.

I said nothing. I simply turned away and started pulling survivors from the rubble, one after another, until my hands were covered in blood and dust.

I carried children out, lifted broken concrete with the rescue team, searched through collapsed buildings, and pulled bodies from places nobody else wanted to enter.

I’d done this before.

Not in a rescue center.

In Naples’s underworld.

I’d searched through ruined compounds after shootouts and buried people I’d known since childhood. I’d learned how to keep moving even when grief made it hard to breathe.

For five years, I’d hidden those skills for Ricci.

Now there was no reason to hide anymore.

When we finally returned to the rescue center, Valerie walked toward me with a large basin of hot water. She looked at my blood-covered clothes and smiled. “Thalia, you’re really going all out, aren’t you? You don’t have to imitate me just because Ricci trusts me.”

I kept working.

She stepped closer. “I already told you, Ricci and I are comrades in BlackSword. You’re covered in dirt, blood, and God knows what else. If I were you, I’d go home instead of standing here and getting in everyone’s way.”

I ignored her.

There were still people waiting for help. Why would I waste even one second on her?

Valerie’s smile slowly disappeared. She hated being ignored. Then, without warning, she tipped the entire basin toward me.

Scalding water hit my face.

A sharp hiss escaped my lips. Pain flashed across my skin, but I didn’t scream.

Valerie immediately dropped the empty basin and stumbled backward. “Ah!”

She dropped the basin and grabbed her hand as a tiny splash landed on her finger. “Thalia! I saw you covered in blood, so I brought you hot water to clean yourself up. Why would you suddenly attack me? I was only trying to help you!”

The second Valerie finished talking, Ricci came rushing over. Of course he did. He was still her good boss always ready to protect her, always ready to believe her. He didn’t even look at my burned face or my bloodied hands before shoving me hard enough that I hit the ground.

“Thalia, have you fucking lost it?” he barked. “You’ve been acting crazy all day, and now you’re attacking one of my people? Do you have any idea how much BlackSword has invested in training Valerie?!”

I pushed myself up slowly. “She poured boiling water on me.”

“Enough,” Ricci snapped. “Valerie is one of BlackSword’s best assassins. She’s been through hell to earn that position, and you’re not going to blame her because you’re jealous. Apologize to her. Now!”

“Apologize?”

Something in me finally snapped.

I lunged at Valerie and knocked her to the ground before striking her across the face again and again. “You’re framing me, aren’t you?” I hissed. “People are dying all around us, and you’re still playing these disgusting little games. Do you even deserve that BlackSword uniform?”

Valerie screamed, but I stopped when I heard Ricci shout my name. I looked at her for one second, then got up.

There were still people trapped inside.

I had no time for her.

I turned and ran back into the disaster zone. Then a massive explosion suddenly ripped through the street.

BOOM!

The ground shook from the blast, and a damaged building finally gave way. Concrete crashed down between Valerie and me, sealing off most of the passage.

“Get out!” one of the BlackSword soldiers yelled. “The structure’s coming down!”

I looked around. Only one narrow opening was left, and Valerie was closer to it.

Then Ricci’s voice came through the chaos.

“Valerie! Get her fuck out of there, now!”

A young BlackSword member hesitated. “But, Boss, your wife is still inside…”

“That’s an order!” Ricci’s voice was cold. “Valerie is one of BlackSword’s elite. Thalia isn’t! If we have to choose, we choose Valerie. Anyone can replace that fucking Thalia.”

I went completely still.

Anyone can replace me?

After five years of marriage, that’s all I was worth?

Valerie glanced back at me and smiled.

Then she let the soldiers pull her out first.

Outside, Ricci immediately grabbed her. “Are you hurt? Let me see your hands.”

“I’m fine, Ricci... Don’t worry about me.”

He checked her anyway, touching her carefully while dust covered the street around them.

They looked like a perfect couple.

I stared at them through the dust.

My chest hurt so badly I almost couldn’t breathe.

I smiled bitterly.

“Thalia!”

Another explosion tore through the building.

I didn’t wait.

My twelve uncles had trained me for situations like this since I was a child. When danger came, you didn’t freeze. You moved.

I spotted a narrow construction gap and ran toward it just as the ceiling above me started collapsing.

BOOM!

Concrete crashed down and pain exploded through my body. My vision blurred. The last thing I saw was Ricci outside, still protecting Valerie.

Then a BlackSword soldier ran toward him, shouting over the sirens.

“Boss! We just got an urgent call from Naples Blood headquarters!”

Ricci turned sharply. “What is it?”

The soldier’s face was pale. “They’re demanding an immediate rescue of the Naples successor. They said Huntress has been trapped inside the war zone!”

And for the first time, Ricci’s face changed.

…

When I woke up, I was lying inside a makeshift first aid station in an abandoned warehouse.

The whole place smelled like blood, smoke, and burned concrete. BlackSword men were moving around everywhere, treating the wounded and carrying supplies through the broken building.

A nurse noticed my eyes opening and hurried over. “Miss Redmond, you’re awake? Damn, you’re tough. You were buried under that rubble for hours, and you somehow came out with only burns, cuts, and dehydration.”

I slowly sat up. “My phone.”

“Easy. You need to rest first. Once you’re stable, we’ll need you to fill out some information.”

I barely heard her.

My mind was still stuck on the last thing I’d heard before the building collapsed.

Ricci choosing Valerie.

Ricci saying anyone could replace me.

My twelve uncles had been trying to reach me too, and I knew they were waiting for news.

I swallowed, but my throat felt raw. “Where’s Ricci?”

The nurse hesitated. “Mr. Santiago? I heard he left with Valerie. Apparently, BlackSword received an urgent mission to protect someone important.”

“Someone important?”

I looked down at my scraped and burned arms.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

I reached for my phone.

I was about to call my family and finally reveal everything to Ricci. I wanted him here so we could sign the divorce papers and end this properly.

Then a message appeared.

Valerie.

[Our teamwork is still perfect, just like always. Unlike some people who only know how to get in the way. ♡]

There was a photo attached.

Valerie and Ricci were sitting together after the failed search mission, their hands tightly clasped.

I stared at the picture.

My fingers went cold.

That little smile of hers wasn’t innocent.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And Ricci?

He probably didn’t even realize she was rubbing salt into my wounds.

Why should he?

He’d already made his choice.

A fresh drop of blood slid from my forehead. I wiped it away and took the form from the nurse.

My hands were still trembling, but I filled everything out quickly.

Name: Thalia Amelisse Redmond.

Age: 29

Marital status: Single.

The nurse glanced over my form and frowned. “Miss Redmond, are you sure? This says you’re single but Mr. Santiago is your husband, isn’t he? Maybe you filled it in by mistake.”

I gave a small, cold smile. “He isn’t my husband anymore.” The nurse looked confused. “We’re getting divorced.”

Before she could say anything else, a deep male voice came from behind us.

“Thalia, what the fuck did you just say?”

I looked up.

The door had been shoved open and Ricci stood there.

His black shirt was covered in dust, his sleeves were rolled up, and his face was grim. He looked like the mafia boss everyone feared, not the man who had spent the last five years calling me his wife.

The nurse immediately stood up. “Mr. Santiago, you two should talk. Whatever happened, you can work it out. I’ll give you some privacy.”

She grabbed the form and quickly left.

The door closed and silence filled the room.

Ricci walked straight toward my bed.

It was only then that he noticed my face.

His expression shifted.

For one brief second, panic crossed his eyes.

“Thalia… Are you hurt badly? Does your face still hurt?”

I laughed softly.

He finally noticed.

After everything, he finally noticed.

Ricci frowned. “Don’t laugh. I’m asking you a serious question.”

I looked away.

He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Look, about what happened earlier, the situation was fucking chaotic. I had to make a decision, and if I’d chosen you over Valerie, I would’ve lost control of the entire rescue team.” He stepped closer. “I wasn’t abandoning you. I swear to God, I went back looking for you the moment I could, but you’d already been rescued. So stop thinking I left you there on purpose, okay?”

Okay?

That word almost made me laugh again.

After being burned, buried, forgotten, and replaced, he still wanted me to understand him.

Did he ever try to understand me?

I slowly raised my hand.

Ricci didn’t even see it coming.

Smack!

My palm landed hard against his face.

His head snapped to the side.

Ricci looked completely stunned after I slapped him. His jaw tightened, and I could see the anger rising in his eyes. For a second, I thought he’d finally lose his temper, but then his eyes fell on the burns and cuts covering my body, and he held it back.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “I won’t hit you back just because you’re angry. You’re already hurt enough.”

His hand came up and gently touched the corner of my eye.

If this were the old me, I would’ve slapped his hand away. Five years ago, I would’ve glared at him and said, “You’re damn right I’m angry.”

But that woman was dead.

Just like the Ricci I used to love.

“I’m not angry.”

He looked relieved. “Really? That’s good. I knew you’d understand eventually.”

I smiled. “Of course I do.”

After all, why would I waste my anger on a stranger?

Over the next few days, Ricci kept coming to see me after handling BlackSword’s operations. He brought food, changed my dressings, poured me water, and even made sure I took my medicine on time.

He suddenly became the perfect husband.

The doctors couldn’t stop praising him. “Miss Thalia, you’re really lucky. Your husband takes such good care of you.”

Ricci actually looked proud. “I learned it from my wife.”

Of course he did.

For three years, I’d cooked his meals, prepared his clothes, served his coffee, and waited for him at home like some obedient wife.

“Did you?” I asked, looking at him.

He smiled. “Yeah. My wife taught me how to take care of people. She’s always been good at this.”

I didn’t correct him.

There was no point.

That evening, I sat quietly on the hospital bed, staring out the window. Ricci came over and started massaging my temples. Apparently, one of the doctors had taught him how to do it.

His fingers were warm and gentle.

For a few seconds, I closed my eyes.

It almost felt like the old days.

Almost.

But then I remembered him standing outside the collapsed building, protecting Valerie while I was trapped inside.

So I opened my eyes again.

No.

I couldn’t let myself forget.

Later that night, Ricci pulled a blanket over me and quietly left.

Not long after, hurried footsteps came from the hallway, and the door flew open.

“Mr. Santiago!”

A nurse rushed in, looking terrified. “Miss Valerie was injured during the rescue operation. She’s lost a lot of blood and needs an immediate transfusion!”

Ricci stood up instantly. “What happened?”

“She was caught in another bombing. The blast threw debris into her path, and she’s in critical condition.”

“Fuck.”

He rushed toward the door, passing right beside me, but somehow, he stopped himself and looked back.

“Thalia, get some rest. Valerie’s badly injured, and I need to check on her. I’ll come back when she’s stable, okay?”

“Go.”

He left.

That night, my burns became infected, and my fever climbed to forty degrees. I barely knew where I was anymore.

Then, sometime before dawn, the door opened, and Ricci came back. He grabbed my shoulder and shook me awake.

“Thalia, wake up.”

I slowly opened my eyes.

His expression was serious. “Valerie needs blood. The hospital’s blood supply is almost gone because of the attacks, and you’re the only compatible match they have right now.”

I stared at him.

He continued, “I know you’re weak, but Valerie’s condition is critical! She’s one of BlackSword’s best assassins, and we can’t afford to lose her.”

My fingers tightened around the bedsheet. “Ricci…”

His voice softened. “Thalia, please. Just give her some blood. Half of what you have should be enough. I’ll make sure you get proper treatment afterward.”

I stared at him for a long time, then laughed.

“Half my blood?”

He frowned. “Yes.”

“You know I’m already injured!”

“I know but Valerie needs it.”

“Not happening.”

“But I’m asking you to do this for BlackSword.”

“No.”

“Thalia.”

“No.”

His patience finally snapped. “Fine. Have it your way.”

He stood up, his expression turning cold. “But you’re giving the blood whether you fucking like it or not.”

I stared at him as BlackSword men entered the room. They took me to the blood collection room.

I was too weak to fight properly.

The needle went into my arm, and blood started flowing into the bag.

One bag.

Then another.

My vision slowly blurred, and my body became colder with every minute. I couldn’t even lift my hand anymore. When they finally finished, I could barely keep my eyes open.

Ricci didn’t even look back. He grabbed the blood bag and rushed straight toward Valerie’s ward.

I watched him disappear through the door.

I stared at Ricci’s back as he disappeared down the hallway with Valerie’s blood bag. I knew exactly what half my blood meant after everything I’d already been through. It could put me into shock.

My legs were shaking, and my head felt like it was floating, but I forced myself to move. I needed a doctor. I needed help before I passed out.

Then, as I walked past one of the private wards, I heard Valerie’s voice. “Ricci, aren’t you going to stay with Thalia for a while? I was only pretending to be injured, but she actually had half her blood taken. She looks like she could collapse at any moment.”

I stopped.

Then Ricci answered.

His voice was calm.

Almost gentle.

“Don’t worry about her. That’s her punishment. She chose to act like that herself. She’s a housewife, but she doesn’t know her place and she delayed the rescue operation, so I’m not going to keep rewarding that behavior.”

I stood outside the door, barely able to breathe.

Valerie gave a soft sigh. “Ricci, I’m honestly worried. I don’t understand why your wife suddenly became like this. She used to be so quiet and sweet.”

There was something strange in her voice.

She was enjoying this.

Then Ricci chuckled softly. “Don’t think about it. Just rest, Valerie. I’ll handle her.”

Well.

So Valerie had never been injured.

Not even once.

I felt something hot rush up my throat, and blood filled my mouth. I stumbled backward and covered it with my hand before a doctor spotted me.

“Miss Redmond!”

Everything suddenly became chaos.

“She’s lost too much blood! Get a stretcher and call the blood bank immediately!”

“Someone contact her family!”

I wanted to answer them.

I wanted to tell them who I really was but my vision was already fading.

Ricci wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t.

Then everything went black.

...

When I woke up again, my pillow was wet.

I didn’t understand why I was crying. I’d already decided to leave him, and I’d already stopped loving him, so why did my chest still hurt like someone was ripping my heart apart?

Then I remembered something from my childhood.

I was seven when I was kidnapped and locked inside a warehouse for seven days. I was terrified until the door finally opened and a young man walked toward me.

It was Ricci.

He’d been crying before he found me, but the moment he saw me, he quickly wiped his face and tried to smile. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t cry, Thalia. I’m here now, and I’ll take you home.”

I remembered looking at him and smiling.

But you made me cry anyway.

“Don’t cry, Thalia,” I whispered to myself. “That man who saved you is gone. The Ricci you loved is gone too.”

So I stopped waiting for him.

I worked through rehabilitation, regained my strength, packed my things, and contacted my twelve uncles. I didn’t ask them to talk to Ricci. I asked them to use every connection our family had to make sure my divorce went through quickly.

Three weeks later, I walked out of the hospital holding my divorce certificate.

I was finally free.

Then I saw Ricci.

He stood outside the hospital entrance with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. The moment our eyes met, he froze, and the flowers slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, scattering petals across the pavement.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did I.

Then Valerie appeared behind him with another bouquet. She walked up beside me and leaned closer.

“Thalia, Ricci picked these flowers for you himself. He said he’d divorce you once you recovered.”

I looked at her without emotion.

She smiled. “Do you know why he’s dragged this out for five years? It’s because he still loves the food you make, and he can’t stand the thought of you leaving him.”

Her smile became wider. “I honestly can’t bear watching you leave him either. You should thank me, you know. I’m the reason he still has a reason to keep you around.”

I barely listened.

Something about the flowers felt wrong.

I reached toward them.

Suddenly, Valerie gasped. “Ah!”

She stabbed herself with the knife she’d hidden in her sleeve, then threw the knife toward me and collapsed.

“Ricci!” Her face went pale as she clutched her wound. “I know I’m a BlackSword assassin, but I’ve never hurt your wife, and I’ve never betrayed you. Why would she suddenly stab me?”

My blood ran cold.

Ricci turned sharply. “Valerie!” He rushed toward her.