Lena POV

I paced the gleaming hardwood floors of the estate, a cold and unshakable resolve settling in my bones.

I was going to confront him and demand the truth tonight, whatever the cost.

Marco returned to the house hours later, the heavy front door clicking shut behind him with the hollow finality of a vault.

He walked into the living room, wearily loosening his silk tie.

The moment he stepped close to me, the overpowering, cloying scent of Sophia's signature perfume hit my senses.

My stomach, already unsettled from the pregnancy, lurched.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and ran to the master bathroom, dropping to my knees before the cold porcelain bowl.

Marco followed me, his heavy footsteps echoing on the tiles.

He knelt beside me, rubbing my back with his large, warm hand in a gesture of practiced, unthinking comfort.

"What is wrong with you tonight?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

I shoved his hand away and wiped my mouth with a thick towel.

"Your perfume makes me sick," I stated coldly.

Marco went completely rigid, the warmth draining from his demeanor.

His patience snapped, replaced by a defensive edge.

"Do you find me disgusting now?" he demanded, his tone turning sharp.

"You were the one who walked away at the club and embarrassed me in front of the crew."

A hot, humiliating pressure built behind my eyes.

Marco's expression softened slightly at the sight of my distress.

He reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek with a practiced, dismissive touch.

I slapped his hand away.

"Did you go to the private airstrip to pick up Sophia on the day we were supposed to register at the Church?" I demanded, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Marco froze, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before a shutter came down.

"No," he lied smoothly, without missing a beat.

"I was handling an emergency for my Capo. I told you that."

I sneered internally, the knowledge of his lie a corrosive acid in my chest, knowing Sophia had set that smug social media post to be visible only to me.

"Then why were you too cowardly to acknowledge our marriage in front of the crew today?" I pressed, stepping closer to him until the space between us was nothing.

His temper flared, a dark flush creeping up his neck.

"You were the one who denied our relationship first, Lena!" he shouted, his voice echoing harshly off the marble tiles.

He stepped into my space, using his height and broad shoulders to loom over me, a physical tactic designed to intimidate me into submission.

"And let us not pretend," he added brutally, his words laced with venom.

"Our marriage was always just a fake arrangement for The Family anyway."

The warmth in my body evaporated, leaving a core of solid ice.

I bit the inside of my lip so hard I tasted the sharp tang of copper.

"Was all your affection over the past year fake too?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.

Marco's jaw clenched tight, a muscle feathering beneath his skin.

He looked away, staring blankly at the bathroom wall, offering me no answer.

My voice broke as I screamed at him, the pain finally tearing through me.

"Why did you propose to me? Why did you play house with me if it was all a lie?"

Marco stepped forward and pulled me into a tight, suffocating embrace, trapping my arms against my sides.

He patted my back in heavy silence, refusing to say the words I needed to hear.

I clung to a final, pathetic shred of hope, desperate for a lifeline.

"When are we going to the Consigliere to finalize the marriage?" I asked hoarsely against his chest.

Marco stiffened against me, his entire body going rigid as stone.

After a long, agonizing pause, he muttered his response into my hair.

"Things are fine the way they are right now."

I went completely still in his arms, the last ember of my hope extinguishing into cold ash.

The devastating realization hit me with the force of a freight train, knocking the wind out of me.

I was merely his placeholder, a convenient shield until the woman he truly wanted was ready for him.

I pushed out of his arms and walked straight to the walk-in closet, my movements mechanical and numb.

I began grabbing my clothes, blindly shoving them into my arms.

"What are you doing?" Marco demanded, following me into the cavernous space.

"I am moving my things into the guest wing," I said without looking at him.

Marco reached out and grabbed my arm to stop me, his grip bruising.

I wrenched my arm from his grasp, the rough wool of his jacket scraping my skin, my eyes blazing with a pure hatred I had never felt before.

Marco stared at me for a long moment, his chest heaving.

Then he let out a heavy sigh, turned around, and retreated to the master suite.

He slammed the heavy oak door shut behind him.

The deafening echo of that slammed door severed the very last thread of my devotion to Marco Bianchi, leaving nothing but ash in its wake.