I had just suffered a miscarriage.

With trembling fingers, I called my husband, only to hear the sounds of a rowdy party on the other end.

"Don, this was supposed to be your anniversary gift for your wife," a voice teased amidst the cheers. "Giving it to Miss Lena instead—aren't you afraid your lady will throw a fit?"

Vincent's voice was deep and dismissive. "Lena's brother died saving my life. I owe her. As for Isabella... she's gentle. She'll understand."

He paused, his tone turning colder. "Besides, she came to me with those scandalous rumors surrounding her past. The resources the Corleone family has given her over the years are more than enough to compensate for these little grievances."

As blood stained the hem of my skirt, I silently pressed the end-call button. Tears fell uncontrollably.

He doesn't know yet—the baby is gone, and I am finally done with him.

When Vincent called me back, the news about Isabella Corleone's miscarriage had already been splashed across the New York Post for a whole night.

"What new stunt is this?" His tone was dismissive. "You've tried crying and throwing fits, so now you're using a baby to get my attention?"

I gripped the edge of the sink, saying nothing.

"I know you love me too much, that's why you're like this." He sighed, his voice softening slightly. "But no matter how upset you are, you shouldn't joke about a child."

He paused, then continued, "Photos of me and Lena at that event got out. She just signed on for a new reality show—her career can't afford any scandals. Just let her use your buzz to deflect attention for a bit. In a few days, I'll take you to Sicily."

Without waiting for my answer, he hung up.

I steadied myself against the sink. In the mirror, my heavily made-up face was still deathly pale, slowly twisting into a bitter smile.

On the trending list, the headline about Vincent and Lena entering a hotel together late at night vanished within minutes.

In its place: news about my miscarriage, my alleged promiscuity, and claims that Vincent and I had long been divorced. The hashtag #IsabellaGetOutOfHollywood shot straight to number one.

Hateful messages flooded my phone, one after another. My lips trembled uncontrollably.

I realized that this kind of public scandal would destroy any actress's career. And in five minutes, I had to walk the red carpet at the Corleone family charity gala.

Just thinking about it made my heart ache with bitterness.

Not only did I have to deal with a grueling filming schedule, but I also had to handle the endless parade of women around Vincent.

Vincent was the king of this city, the Don who controlled the underworld. He was ruthless, calculating, his hands stained with blood—yet he wasn't without honor.

All of New York knew Lena was a "poor soul"—her brother Thomas had taken a bullet for Vincent three years ago, dying in the streets of Sicily. Vincent carried that debt in his bones, repeatedly looking after and caring for Lena.

I knew all that.

What I didn't know was when that debt started to outweigh everything between us.

At the charity gala, the reporters' camera flashes nearly blinded me.

"Miss Isabella, is it true that the baby's father wasn't Vincent?"

"Vincent was photographed on a late-night date. Did you know about it?"

"Have you two already divorced?"

Hearing the increasingly pointed questions, I maintained a polished smile and picked the most harmless one to answer:

"Vincent is handling family business. He's on a business trip to Chicago today, so he couldn't attend with me. Our relationship is strong. Thank you all for your concern."

Suddenly, the media's attention shifted. My anxious heart slowly settled as I followed their gaze—

Vincent, the man I'd just claimed wasn't in New York, appeared at the other end of the red carpet with Lena on his arm.

He saw me, his eyes flickering with something like guilt.

Beside him, Lena's expression was pure provocation.

My gaze drifted downward and landed on her neck—she was wearing the anniversary necklace Vincent had promised to buy for me.

A dull ache pulsed deep in my abdomen.

I clenched my fists, ignoring the stares around me. I didn't even finish the gala before excusing myself to the host and returning to my hotel. I swallowed a handful of painkillers and slowly drifted into sleep.

Through my haze, I felt the bed dip slightly.

He twisted a strand of my hair around his finger. "You mad?"

His voice was low, cautious. "I should've told you about my plans. Lena begged me to walk the carpet with her, said she was scared to go alone after Thomas died... I couldn't say no."

He paused, his voice dropping lower. "I know it wasn't ideal. But you understand—I can't refuse her. Not about this."

The smell of alcohol mixed with perfume made me nauseous.

I swatted away the hand on my waist, my tone distant. "It's late. Get some sleep."

My rejection set him off. He punched the comforter and stood over me. "Isabella, do you have any idea how long Lena cried and begged me today to stay by her side?"

"You're the only one with the title of Mrs. Corleone. No matter how much I accompany Lena, it's all just for show. Stop being unreasonable, okay? You know you're the one I care about most."

According to him, I should be grateful that he chose to spend the night with me.

The most basic duty of a husband—Vincent made it sound like some grand favor.

My nails dug into my palms as I looked calmly at his irritated expression.

"Vincent, I don't want the title of Mrs. Corleone anymore."

"Let's get a divorce."

When Vincent heard the word "divorce," it was as if he had heard the most absurd joke in the world.

He rolled over, his rough fingertips sliding across the back of my hand—a gesture he only used when he was trying to coax me. "Tonight was my fault. I apologize, and I'll make it up to you. But I never planned to let you leave."

He paused, his voice dropping with a sense of absolute certainty. "You know as well as I do—we can't get divorced."

"There's an awards ceremony tomorrow night. I've already ordered the finest gown for you. You will be the most beautiful Best Actress in all of America."

With that, he turned and left. His footsteps faded down the hallway, and the door to the adjacent room clicked shut softly.

This wasn't the first time I had asked for a divorce. Not long after we were married, he had slammed a stack of photos in front of me, claiming I had been "tainted" before I married him. From that day on, those photos became a thorn—every time he messed up, he would drag them out again to shut me down.

The first time I demanded a divorce was seven months after the wedding. He had carefully prepared a birthday villa for me. I canceled all my filming commitments and flew back to the estate early, only to push open the study door and find him with the old butler's daughter bent over his desk.

Hearing the noise, he whipped around. Genuine panic flashed in his eyes before he quickly stood up and shielded the girl behind him.

"Baby, it's not what you think..."

I said nothing. I turned and walked out of the study.

In the smoke-filled parlor, Vincent, now fully dressed, came after me, looking uneasy. He grabbed my wrist, his voice lowered. "I'm sorry. I had too much to drink. She kept throwing herself at me, and I thought she was you... I'll send her away right now."

He said it while looking into my eyes, without a shred of real conviction.

To keep me from leaving, Vincent called his lawyer that very night. At three in the morning, he signed a postnuptial agreement in the parlor—one that stated he would be left with nothing if we divorced.

He didn't even read it carefully. He just flipped to the last page, scrawled his signature, and threw the pen on the table. "Give me one more chance. If I betray you again, all of the Corleone family assets go to you. I'll leave with nothing."

I thought of my mother's dying wish—she wanted me to escape the shadow of the mafia completely, win a prestigious award, and live a normal life.

For that fragile hope, I locked the agreement in the safe and gave him a second chance.

Reality slapped me hard in the face. He had hidden that incident for three years, until ten months into our marriage, when the past came crashing down in another form.

That day, I had just finished an event and was looking forward to having dinner at home with Vincent.

In the parlor, he threw a stack of photos at me.

"Three years ago. St. Regis Hotel, Sicily. That night I said I was handling business—but who is the man on top of you in these photos?"

They were a series of explicit photos. The woman in them was definitely me—my face was clear. But the man on top of me? His face was blurred.

I knelt on the cold, hard floor, flipping through the photos as my heart plummeted.

"It's not like that!"

"The person in that room that night was you. You were the one who barged in. You were the one who tore my dress..."

Before I could finish, Vincent's expression twisted in agony.

He clutched his head desperately—the blood clot in his brain was reacting to the stress.

The next second, he collapsed right in front of me.

"Mrs. Corleone, weren't you supposed to keep quiet about what happened back then?" The doctor chided helplessly. "There's still a blood clot in his brain. Agitating him like this was reckless!"

"At least we saved him. You can go see him now."

The scolding hit me like a blow to the chest. I bit the soft flesh of my lip until it bled, regret flooding my chest.

I stumbled out of the doctor's office in a daze and headed toward the VIP ward.

I pushed the door open slightly, about to enter.

Then I saw Vincent propped against his pillows, smiling broadly as he ate an orange that Lena was peeling for him.

In that moment, my heart died completely.

I wandered out of the hospital in a fog, not watching where I was going. I missed a step and fell, blacking out instantly.

When I woke up back then, Vincent was keeping watch by my bedside. Those eyes of his, so accustomed to slaughter and plunder, were now webbed with fine, red streaks of exhaustion.

"The doctor said you're four months pregnant." He placed his hand gently over my lower abdomen, his voice carrying a tremor that bordered on the sacred. "This is the true heir to the Corleone family. How could you be so careless? You didn't even realize you were pregnant."

"It's a blessing you fainted right next to the hospital. The injuries weren't severe, otherwise... I don't know what I would have done." His eyes reddened slightly. "Don't worry. I'll be a good father. I'll take care of you both."

In that moment, I almost fell for the illusion: that this mafia tyrant had truly turned over a new leaf for the sake of this unborn life.

In the days that followed, he actually began a surreal transformation. He tossed all his Cuban cigars into the shredder and locked his sidearm and those shadow ledgers away. The number of servants at the estate doubled. He began personally reviewing the chef's daily prenatal menu and turned down every late-night family drinking session.

Every night, he would lean against the pillows and read stories to the baby in that deep voice of his, thick with a Sicilian accent.

"We're going to have a complete family, Isabella," he whispered, kissing my forehead. "I swear, I won't let you repeat your mother's fate."

His aunt came to visit, patting my hand with relief. "Vincent has truly settled down this time. In Sicily, a man isn't truly grown until he has roots. For the sake of the child, give him one more chance."

I watched his silhouette in the study as he picked out a crib for the baby, my heart a chaotic mess. I grew up in a single-parent home. The pain of being mocked as a "bastard with no father" was a nightmare I could never escape. I thought to myself, I should give this man one more chance, if only for the life inside me.

However, on the day of my check-up, the old servant who usually looked after me suddenly fell ill. I called Vincent ten times. Each call vanished into the void.

Enduring my physical discomfort, I took a taxi back to the Bel Air estate alone. The moment I pushed open the door, the silence I expected wasn't there. Giggles drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of something hitting the counter.

My fingertips went cold as I moved toward the sound, step by step.

Through the ajar door, I saw the man who had promised me a "complete family" pressing a young kitchen assistant against the countertop. The woman was wearing nothing but a thin lace apron.

"Madam!" The woman spotted me and let out a sharp gasp.

Vincent finally turned his head. The intoxication on his face froze instantly, turning as white as a sheet. "Isabella!" He scrambled to push the girl away—his shirt buttons weren't even done up—as he stumbled toward me. "Let me explain, don't get upset..."

"Don't touch me." My voice was agonizingly raspy. I stared at the fresh, crimson bloom spreading on the floor beneath me, my body growing colder by the second.

"Calm down, just listen to me." He told the woman to leave first, then grabbed my shoulders, his voice frantic. "I'm sorry. I was drunk, I made a stupid mistake... I promise it will never happen again."

"This isn't the first time." I interrupted him, looking directly into his eyes. "Vincent, count them. Exactly how many times has it been?"

He fell silent. That silence chilled me more than any explanation could—not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew anything he said would be useless.

Sensing the dead, ashen resolve in my eyes, his expression shifted as a thought struck him. He took a deep breath and pierced my only weakness with surgical precision:

"Isabella, you come from a single-parent home. You know that hardship. The child isn't even born yet—can you really bear to let him walk that same path?"

On the day I received the notice that my mother was terminally ill, I had tearfully shared my past with him—the irresponsible father, the constant moving, the years of drifting between relatives' homes. That night, he held me and promised: he would give me a home that was forever whole.

Memory overlapped with reality. The secrets I had whispered in the middle of the night were now the weapons he used to control me.

I didn't say a word. He took my silence as a sign of submission, and his posture relaxed. "That's a good girl."

He reached out, intending to drape his arm around my shoulder as he usually did, his tone carrying a habitual sense of indulgence.

I stepped aside. His hand met empty air, freezing mid-motion.