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.