Tears slid down my temples as I let out a soft, deliberate cough.

Vincent's entire demeanor shifted.

He burst through the door, his face a mask of concern, clutching a bouquet of my favorite white roses. "Isabella, you're awake?"

I kept my expression blank, as if I'd heard nothing.

"How are you feeling? The doctor said you and the baby are both fine." He sat on the edge of the bed, taking my hand.

"We're having a baby," I said, meeting his eyes. "Are you happy?"

"Of course." He kissed the back of my hand. "This is a miracle."

A miracle he planned to orphan.

"Vincent, I love you," I whispered, pulling him into a hug. "No matter what, I'll always trust you."

His body stiffened for a fraction of a second. "I love you too, Isabella. Always."

Always. The word was a joke on his lips.

The next day, a scandal erupted.

The headline on Art Weekly's cover was a bombshell: "GENIUS OR FRAUD? SOPHIA MARTINEZ ACCUSED OF PLAGIARISM!"

I sat in the living room, watching the news report.

"An anonymous source alleges many of Sophia Martinez's signature works were stolen from acclaimed artist Isabella Torrino, who has been unable to create since a tragic accident three years ago..."

Vincent stormed down the stairs, his face a thundercloud.

"Did you do this?" He grabbed my shoulders. "Did you leak this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Isabella! Are you going to keep playing the innocent?" he shook me. "Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused this family?"

"If the work is mine, why can't I say so?" I shoved him away. "Or are you afraid of the truth?"

Crack!

He slapped me again.

"Enough! You will not say another goddamn word about this!"

I held my burning cheek, refusing to let him see my tears.

That afternoon, Vincent held an emergency press conference in our living room, packed with reporters.

Sophia sat on the sofa, looking like a fragile, wronged angel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've called you here to address a malicious rumor," Vincent began, his tone grave. "The accusations of plagiarism against Sophia Martinez are utterly baseless."

"Mr. Torrino, what about your wife's claims?" a reporter shouted.

Vincent took a deep breath, his eyes flicking up to where I stood on the landing.

"Isabella... has been mentally unstable for some time," he said, his voice heavy with false sorrow. "She suffers from delusions. A nerve injury three years ago made it impossible for her to create."

The room erupted. "Are you saying your wife is mentally ill?"

"I hate to admit it, but... yes. She needs professional help. I tried to keep this private, but now her condition is hurting innocent people."

My legs gave out and I sank to the steps.

He was telling the whole world I was crazy.

Sophia looked up, tears streaming down her face.

"I understand Isabella's pain," she sobbed. "But I cannot be slandered. These works are mine, and I have the drafts to prove it."

"Will you release that evidence?"

"Of course," Vincent said. "We will provide everything. Sketches, notes, timestamps. All of it."

I knew the "evidence" was a lie.

But who would believe me now?

After the conference, a smear campaign began.

"Isabella Torrino's tragic breakdown..."

"Poor Sophia, targeted by a madwoman..."

"Mafia wife's psychosis: from princess to pariah."

My phone exploded with calls from friends, colleagues, strangers.

I turned it off and locked myself away.

The next morning, paparazzi swarmed the mansion like vultures.

"Isabella! Give us a comment!"

"How is your mental state?"

Camera lenses were aimed at every window.

I hid behind the curtains, a prisoner in my own home.

Vincent returned, pushing through the media circus. "Mr. Torrino! How is your wife?"

"She's resting," Vincent said, his face a stone mask. "We ask for privacy."

Just then, a figure stumbled toward him.

It was Sophia, a perfect actress.

She fell to her knees, clinging to his legs.

"Vincent, I can't take it anymore!" she wailed for the cameras. "They're calling me a homewrecker, a thief! I'm so worried the stress will harm our baby!"

Vincent immediately bent down, helping her up.

"It's okay, it'll all be over soon," he said, holding her tenderly. "I won't let anyone hurt you or our child."

The cameras flashed, capturing the perfect image: the powerful Don protecting the innocent, slandered artist.

And me, the real victim, locked away like a lunatic.

They passed my room on the way inside.

"Is Isabella in there?" Sophia asked softly.

"Don't worry about her," Vincent said coldly. "She can't hurt you anymore."

I leaned against the door, silent tears finally streaming down my face.

In his mind, I was the monster.

I went back into my room and began to pack.

The wedding photos, I ripped to shreds.

My art prints, I burned in the fireplace.

The jewelry he gave me, I left in a box on his pillow.

At 3 a.m., my burner phone vibrated.

An anonymous text:

[St. Mary's Hospital, underground parking, level B2. 3 p.m. tomorrow. ID ready. The plan is a go.]

I deleted the message.

Isabella Torrino was about to die.

The next morning, a soft knock came at my door.

"Isabella? Can I come in?"

It was Sophia.

I sat up, wary. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk." She pushed the door open, holding a glass of milk. "I warmed this for you. It's good for the baby."

Her performance only sharpened my unease. "Just say it."

"I wanted to apologize," Sophia said, her eyes welling with crocodile tears. "I know I've done wrong. Vincent is your husband. I'm going to leave... go to Europe. I hope we can make peace."

She offered the glass. "Here. I added honey. For you and the baby."

I looked at her, at the sincere mask she wore.

For a foolish second, I almost believed her.

I took the glass and took a sip.

A wave of heavy drowsiness hit me almost instantly.

"Sophia, if you really want to leave..."

"Oh, I will," her smile turned sharp and cruel. "But I don't think you'll be around to see me go."

My head spun.

A brutal cramp seized my stomach.

"What... what did you do?"

"Just a little something," she whispered, leaning in. "Enough to make you and your little problem disappear."

I tried to stand, to scream, but my legs buckled.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen.

"Help... me..."

"No one's coming," Sophia said coldly, watching me writhe. "Vincent's out. I gave the staff the day off."

The pain was blinding.

Blood began to soak through my nightgown.

My baby...

"Why..." I sobbed.

"Because when you're dead, Vincent will only have me," she said, standing over me. "And your bastard will die with you."

Sophia was gone.

My hand shaking, I grabbed the burner phone and dialed the emergency number.

"Isabella?" My grandfather's voice was instant and sharp.

"Grandpa... help..." I was so weak I could barely form the words. "Sophia... poisoned me... the baby..."

"I'm sending men now!" his voice roared with a fury that promised retribution. "Hold on, child!"

Ten minutes later, three men in black suits were in my room.

"Miss Rossi," the leader said, his eyes taking in the blood. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No," I grabbed his arm, a new, icy resolve hardening inside me. "Vincent will find out. Stick to the plan. The death has to be real."

"But, Miss, your condition..."

“The blood?” I forced myself to sit up, a grim smile touching my lips. “It just makes the story more convincing. We do it now.”

With my last ounce of strength, I smeared more blood on the sheets.

Then I opened the safe and took out the divorce papers I'd prepared.

Isabella Torrino.

I signed my old name for the last time.

I placed the papers on the blood-soaked bed, then took out the faded photo from the church.

On the back, I wrote: The one who really saved you was never Sophia.

"Is the double in place?" I asked.

"She's ready, ma'am. She'll take your car to the designated spot."

"Get me out of here."

We heard an engine outside.

Vincent was back.

"Go! Now!"

The men helped me out a back exit just as a woman wearing my clothes and a wig sped my red Ferrari out the front gate and onto the road.

We were in an unmarked car on a dark stretch of I-94.

I listened to the operation on a secure radio.

"Target vehicle is approaching the overpass."

"The asset is clear of the vehicle."

"Initiating countdown. Ten... nine... eight..."

I clenched my fists, thinking of the child I'd lost.

"Seven... six... five..."

Sophia had taken everything.

"Four... three... two..."

Now, Isabella Torrino was going to die.

"One. Detonate!"

A massive explosion lit up the distant sky, a fireball roaring into the night.

I stared at the flames, and for the first time, I didn't cry.

Isabella Torrino was dead.

And a new woman was born from her ashes.

——————

Vincent's POV

I walked into the mansion at 10:30 p.m. to the sound of a maid's piercing scream from upstairs.

"Sir! It's the missus... she's..."

I took the stairs three at a time.

The scene in our bedroom was a nightmare.

A horrifying amount of blood soaked the white sheets.

"Isabella!" I roared, tearing the room apart. "Where is she?"

"We can't find her, sir!" the maid cried. "There's just the blood, and... and this..."

She handed me a document.

Divorce papers.

Signed.

My hands trembled as I opened the folder.

Tucked inside was a faded photograph.

The church, fifteen years ago.

A picture of me and a little girl... but the face wasn't Sophia's.

It was Isabella.

The words on the back twisted in my gut like a knife:

The one who really saved you was never Sophia.

The memory hit me like a freight train.

The rain, the fear, her small hand in mine.

It was Isabella.

It was always Isabella.

"No... no, it can't be..." I collapsed onto the blood-stained floor.

My phone rang.

It was my second-in-command, Marcus, his voice frantic.

"Boss! Mrs. Torrino's car... it exploded on I-94. The feds are on scene... Boss, they're saying... there are no survivors."