Chapter 2

Vincenzo came home at two in the morning. I lay with my back to the door, feigning sleep, listening to the rustle of him undressing. The mattress dipped as he climbed in, his breath drawing close, carrying a faint trace of jasmine—not my perfume, not his cologne.

He pressed against me from behind, his chest against my back, his arm wrapping around my waist. His palm slid over my silk nightgown, stroking my stomach before moving upward.

"Baby..." His lips brushed my earlobe, his voice low and husky. "Let me make it up to you tonight."

I grabbed his wrist. My nails nearly broke the skin. "Don't touch me."

He froze.

Images from the afternoon flooded my mind unbidden—Camilla lifting mango to his lips, him leaning in to kiss her, then laughing as he mocked how stupid and gullible I was. Those photos on the wall, the three of them pressed together, smiling like a family.

"Baby, what's wrong?" A note of surprise at the rejection crept into his voice.

I pulled free of his embrace and turned to face the other side. "Headache."

A few seconds of silence. Then he moved closer again, his lips landing on the back of my neck, his palm settling on my stomach—just like he'd done countless times when I had cramps. "Better?"

In the darkness, I closed my eyes, my nails digging into my palms. His tenderness was so familiar. His betrayal was so real.

He lay back, his breathing gradually evening out. But I could tell he wasn't asleep. He was waiting—waiting for me to soften like I always did, to roll into his arms and murmur forgiveness for missing our anniversary.

Not tonight.

It wasn't until three a.m. that his breathing finally deepened completely. I counted to one thousand, then slipped out of bed without a sound, my bare feet padding across the carpet as I glided out of the bedroom like a shadow.

I moved down the hallway and pushed open the door to his study. The safe embedded in the wall waited behind an oil painting. I tried my birthday. Red light. His birthday. Red light.

Finally, I entered those numbers—our wedding anniversary. Also Liam's birthday.

Green light. The irony was almost laughable.

The door swung open silently. Gray folders were stacked neatly inside, holding seven years of secrets.

I pulled out the one labeled "Long-Term Health Management." The first page was a prescription from a private clinic, headed "Customized Nutritional Supplement Protocol." Patient: Gianna Vitale Rossi. The fine print in the notes section made my blood run cold: "Once daily, mixed into beverage. This formula provides sustained suppression of ovulatory function for long-term contraception. Undetectable in routine examinations."

Signed by Dr. Lawrence—my most trusted family physician.

Memory fragments rewound in a frenzy: the warm milk he brought me every night—"helps you sleep"; the supplements he prepared before business trips—"good for your health"; even the coffee he brewed each morning... Seven years of attentive care, every gesture a carefully measured dose of poison.

My fingers were ice-cold. I kept turning pages.

The second document contained sections of my annual physical exams I'd never been shown. The last page had a conclusion circled in red: "Patient exhibits sustained decline in ovarian function with abnormal hormone levels, highly consistent with clinical presentation of long-term use of certain suppressive agents... probability of natural conception is extremely low."

The third was Camilla's prenatal records. In the space for accompanying person's signature, Vincenzo's handwriting was painfully familiar. The conception date was shortly after he'd started drugging me.

Beside it were his handwritten notes, page after page documenting their joy at expecting a new life, from early pregnancy through delivery.

The truth lay bare and cold. My infertility wasn't fate—it was seven years of meticulous planning by the man who shared my bed. While he savored the joys of fatherhood, he was systematically destroying any chance I had of becoming a mother.

I gripped the edge of the desk, drawing a deep breath. The air still held traces of his cigar smoke—once a scent that made me feel safe. Now it only turned my stomach.

I pulled out my phone and photographed each page. Prescriptions. Medical reports. Prenatal records. And several transfer receipts to "Sterling Psychological Consulting Services"—the amounts absurdly large.

My fingers were steadier than any woman whose world had just collapsed had a right to be.

When I'd captured everything, I returned the documents to their original positions, locked the safe, and slid the painting back into place.

I didn't return to the master bedroom. Instead, I turned toward the guest room at the end of the hall—long vacant—and pushed open the door. The air held a faint trace of dust.

My phone buzzed.

An anonymous message through an encrypted app, with a photo attached. The timestamp was seven years ago—before our wedding. In the image, Vincenzo knelt on the ground, his lips pressed to Camilla's swollen belly, eyes closed, his face showing a tenderness and contentment I had never once seen.

Camilla looked down at him, her fingers threaded through his hair, smiling like a woman who'd been given the whole world.

A second message followed: "Still don't get it? What right does a woman who can't produce an heir have to sit in the godmother's chair?"

My stomach seized violently. But that searing pain had already burned itself out in the first half of the night. What filled my chest now was something else entirely—heavier, colder, more dangerous.

I retrieved a second phone from the hidden compartment of my handbag and opened an encrypted messaging app. I sent a message to Chloe: "Tomorrow, 10 a.m. The usual place. The divorce—it starts now."

Sent. I gripped the phone, the cold metal seeping from my palm into my bones.

I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't ask questions. I wouldn't give anyone reason to suspect. Let them keep thinking I was the clueless, obedient godmother who knew nothing.

But the woman who believed in love? She died tonight.

I walked to the vanity mirror. The woman staring back was pale, her eyes cold as ice.

Seven years. I'd stood by him through assassination attempts, bloody turf wars, a coordinated assault by three families. I'd taken a blade for him. I'd sent men to their graves with my own hands. What did he think I was? A canary waiting in the bedroom for him to come home?

No moon hung outside the window. I looked at my reflection and spoke softly:

"You want me to walk away quietly? Sorry—I've never followed anyone else's script."