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.

"Don't worry," I stared into his eyes, enunciating each word. "The child definitely won't be born into a single-parent household."

After hearing this, Vincent laughed dismissively. "What, do you have some other man waiting for you out there? Isabella, you've been with me since you were twenty. Besides me, who in this world would dare take you in?"

His tone suddenly halted, a trace of crimson seeping into his eyes.

"It's not that man who took your virginity..."

"What the hell can he even offer you?!"

"Don't forget—your mother's dying wish was to see you win six Best Actress awards."

"If you divorce me, can he give you that title?"

He leaned in close, tucking my disheveled hair behind my ear, his tone turning calm, almost gentle. "Get some rest, baby. Stop entertaining these unrealistic fantasies."

I leaned against the cold headboard, listening to those sounds pierce through the wall. Slowly, I felt something tearing deep in my lower abdomen.

It wasn't regular pain—it was a dragging, wrenching agony, violent and sustained, carrying an ominous weight.

I slowly crouched down, my back against the wall, hands desperately clutching my stomach.

Blood flowed down my legs, spreading into a dark red stain on the floor.

I understood then.

The child he'd just used to threaten me—in this very moment, it was gone.

I didn't cry. I just sat there on the cold floor, sat until daylight crept through the curtain gaps, sat until the noise next door finally quieted, sat until the painkillers wore off and my hollow abdomen throbbed.

But compared to the hole in my heart, this pain actually made me clearheaded.

The next evening, at the awards ceremony, stars glittered everywhere.

Ignoring the stares, I settled into my seat, my palms slightly damp with sweat.

I'd been waiting ten years for this trophy.

From clawing my way through the mud to being forced to accept this blood-soaked marriage, my only support was what my mother said as she held my hand on her deathbed: "Win the award. Prove you're not someone's accessory."

I'd truly fought my way here.

Countless nights waiting on set, countless times being screamed at by directors and starting over, countless times maintaining a polished smile for the media—only daring to force my tears back once I'd turned into the bathroom.

During those years, what gave me the strength to carry on wasn't Vincent, wasn't this marriage—it was those words, and the trophy on that stage.

Tonight. It was happening tonight.

"Next, we'll be presenting the award for Best Actress of the Year!" the host's voice rang clear. "For this award, we're honored to have a special guest reveal the winner—the esteemed Mr. Vincent Corleone!"

Under the spotlight, Vincent slowly took the stage.

He stood before the microphone, his voice low and magnetic. "This award's recipient is very special to me. I know how much she's sacrificed to get here today."

"She is—"

I instinctively straightened my spine, ready to greet the finish line that belonged to me.

"Lena!"

The smile froze instantly on my lips.

Lena, seated in the row ahead of me, let out a shriek of delighted surprise.

Not until she walked toward the stage did I notice that her emerald gown matched Vincent's tie perfectly.

They were the couple.

Vincent lowered his eyelids and looked at me through the crowd, his expression apologetic.

But Lena said that Thomas's final wish before he died was to see his sister stand on an awards stage with his own eyes. She'd cried and begged all night long. Vincent, carrying that guilt in his heart, couldn't bear to refuse—so he could only give the trophy to Lena for now.

He figured it was just one trophy. He'd make it up to Isabella with another one later.

While Vincent was lost in thought, disaster struck.

The solid gold Corleone family crest suspended directly above the stage suddenly broke loose. The heavy metal piece came hurtling down toward Vincent's head.

The venue instantly erupted into chaos.

Usually, in moments like this, I would've been the first person to rush forward.

This time, I simply used the confusion to turn and leave, my face expressionless.

Back at the Bel Air estate, I opened the hidden safe. The agreement Vincent had personally signed three years ago—the one promising he'd leave with nothing—had yellowed slightly.

I'd once thought this agreement would never be needed.

I signed my name cleanly.

Taking one last look at this "gilded cage" I'd lived in for ten years, I left all the jewelry behind. Wrapping myself in just a black trench coat, I walked toward the airport without looking back.

At the hospital, Vincent's consciousness remained trapped in that drugged night three years ago.

Everything around him was sickeningly vivid—except the face of the woman beneath him, which stayed blurred. He desperately tried to see clearly, attempted it again and again. Finally, on the last second of the loop, the fog lifted and that face emerged clearly.

It was Isabella.

Vincent's eyes snapped open. What greeted him was the hospital's cold ceiling.

"Isabella—where is Isabella?!"

He grabbed his assistant's collar in a death grip, his voice completely hoarse. Everyone exchanged glances. No one dared answer.

A panic he'd never experienced before exploded in Vincent's chest. Ignoring the blood backing up into his IV needle, he frantically tried to rush out, but his trembling assistant blocked him.

"Five minutes ago... Mrs. Corleone sent someone." The assistant handed over a folder, voice shaking. "She said this is her thank-you gift for you."

Vincent held his breath and opened it.

Inside the folder lay a blood-stained miscarriage report.

And the divorce agreement—now signed by Isabella and officially in effect.