I retreated to the guest room at the far end of the hall.

It was smaller, colder—the kind of sterile space reserved for a distant cousin or a servant you barely wanted to acknowledge.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, the silence of the house pressing against my ears.

My hands gripped the stiff sheets, holding on until my knuckles bleached white.

For eight years, I had been his sanctuary.

I was the one who scrubbed the war from his skin when he returned with blood on his hands.

I was the anchor who held him when the nightmares of his father’s cruelty woke him screaming in the dark.

But in the brutal hierarchy of the Outfit, a mistress was just a placeholder.

A widow carrying a "blood heir," however? She was a saint.

The door to my room clicked open.

I didn't look up, assuming it was Damien coming to offer another apology wrapped in a velvet box.

"Cozy," a voice drawled.

I snapped my head up.

Vivian stood in the doorway.

She had discarded the hospital gown. Now, she was wrapped in one of Damien's black silk robes, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate her slender arms.

It was the robe I wore on Sunday mornings.

"What do you want, Vivian?" I asked, my voice tight.

She sauntered into the room, dragging a manicured finger along the dusty dresser.

"I just wanted to see where the help sleeps," she said, flashing the massive emerald on her ring finger.

The Jones Family ring. The ring of the Donna.

"You're supposed to be on bed rest," I said, standing up.

"And you're supposed to be a secret," she countered, stepping into my personal space.

"Do you know what the men call you, Estelle? The Don's mattress. Comfortable, disposable, and easy to replace."

"Get out," I said, a tremor running through my words.

"This is my house now," she hissed, her eyes narrowing into venomous slits.

"My child will be the King of this city. And you? You're just a lingering bad smell."

She stepped back suddenly, her heel catching on the edge of the rug.

But she didn't trip.

She threw herself backward.

It was a calculated surrender to gravity, a performance worthy of a golden statue.

She hit the floor with a sickening thud and immediately shattered the silence with a scream.

"Estelle, no! Don't hurt the baby!"

The door burst open before I could even inhale.

Damien rushed in, weapon drawn, his predator's gaze sweeping the room for a threat.

He saw Vivian on the floor, clutching her stomach, sobbing hysterically.

Then he saw me, standing over her.

He didn't ask what happened.

He holstered his gun and crossed the distance in a blur.

He slammed me against the wall.

My head cracked against the plaster, stars exploding across my vision in a blinding white flash.

"What did you do?" he roared, spit flying onto my cheek.

"I didn't touch her!" I screamed back, clutching my throbbing skull. "She threw herself down!"

"Liar!" Vivian wailed from the floor, her voice trembling with practiced fear.

"She said she would kill it! She said she wouldn't let Aaron's son take her place!"

Damien turned to look at her, the color draining from his face.

He scooped her up, his movements frantic and desperate.

"Call the doctor!" he bellowed at the guards hovering in the hallway.

He looked back at me, and for the first time in eight years, the man I loved was gone.

In his place stood a cold, lethal stranger.

"If my brother's blood is spilled," he said, his voice a terrifying, low rumble, "there is no mercy. Not even for you."

He carried her out, leaving me alone with the echo of his threat.

Ten minutes later, the Consigliere's private physician arrived.

I stood in the doorway of the Master Suite, watching Damien pace by the bedside like a caged animal.

"Is the heartbeat steady?" Damien asked, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from his brow.

"It's strong, Don Jones," the doctor assured him. "But she needs absolute quiet. Stress could trigger a detachment."

Damien nodded, exhaling a breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour.

He ushered the doctor out and retreated to the bathroom to wash the panic from his face.

I walked into the room.

Vivian opened her eyes.

She saw me and smiled—a slow, predatory stretching of lips that didn't reach her eyes.

"He's so easy to manipulate," she whispered.

"All you have to do is mention 'Family Honor' and he stops thinking."

"You're sick," I breathed. "You'd risk your own child for this?"

Vivian laughed, a dry, brittle sound that grated on my nerves.

"What child?" she whispered, her eyes glinting with malice.

"I drugged him, Estelle. I drugged Damien three weeks ago. I needed a timeline that matched."

She paused, savoring the confusion on my face.

"But the baby? It's not a Jones."

My blood ran cold.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" She smirked, leaning back against the pillows I used to fluff.

"Aaron was sterile. Why do you think we never had kids? But Damien doesn't know that."

Her smile widened, cruel and victorious.

"And a mistress's word is worth nothing against a widow's claim."

I stared at her, the room spinning dizzily around me.

This was treason.

In our world, passing off a bastard child as the bloodline heir wasn't just a lie; it was a death sentence.

"I'm going to tell him," I said, taking a step toward the bathroom door where the water was still running.

Vivian didn't even flinch.

"Go ahead," she challenged, her voice dripping with ice. "Tell him. Tell him the jealous, barren mistress is making up stories to hurt the grieving widow. See who he believes."

The water stopped running.

A moment later, Damien walked out, drying his hands on a plush white towel.

He looked between us, sensing the tension like static electricity in the air.

"Damien," I said, my voice steady despite the frantic pounding in my chest. "You need to listen to me. She just admitted she drugged you. The baby isn't yours. It isn't Aaron's."

Damien froze.

He looked at Vivian.

Vivian immediately burst into tears, grabbing the sheets and pulling them up to her chin as if she were naked and vulnerable.

"See?" she sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She's doing it again! She's trying to stress me into a miscarriage! She's making up insane lies because she hates me!"

"It's not a lie!" I shouted, stepping forward. "Aaron was sterile! Ask the doctor! Check the records!"

"Stop it!" Damien roared.

The sound of his voice was like a physical blow.

He stepped between us, his back to me, shielding her from a threat that didn't exist.

"Aaron was not sterile," Damien said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "My brother was a man. Do not insult his memory."

"She is playing you, Damien!" I grabbed his arm.

He ripped his arm away from my grasp with enough force to make me stumble backwards.

"Enough!" he yelled. "I don't care about your conspiracy theories, Estelle. I care about stability. I care that my men see an heir. I care that the Outfit doesn't crumble into a civil war because you can't handle your jealousy!"

Jealousy.

He thought I was jealous.

"Is that what you think this is?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Look at her," Damien gestured to Vivian, who was trembling theatrically. "She is the mother of the future of this family. You will show her respect."

He turned to Vivian, his voice softening instantly.

"I'm sorry, Viv. She's upset. It won't happen again."

Vivian sniffled, wiping her eyes.

"I just want to be safe, Damien. Maybe I should leave... go to the country house..."

"No," Damien said firmly. "You stay here. Where I can protect you."

He turned back to me.

"We have a deal," he said, his eyes hard. "Once the child is born, Vivian goes to the estate in Sicily. Then, and only then, we can talk about us. About marriage."

"Marriage," I repeated, the word tasting like ash.

"I swear it," he said. "Just wait a few more months. Let me pay my debt to Aaron."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black credit card.

"Go to the boutique tomorrow," he said, shoving the card into my hand. "Get a wedding dress. Get whatever you want. Just... keep the peace."

I looked at the black plastic in my hand.

It was money.

It was a bribe to shut up and let him play house with a traitor.

I looked at Vivian. She winked at me from behind Damien's back.

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet sound of a tether breaking.

"Okay," I said softly.

Damien blinked, surprised by my sudden submission.

"Okay?"

"I'll go get a dress," I said, my fingers tightening around the card. "I'll keep the peace."

I wasn't going to let him drown in his lies.

I was going to let him burn in them.

The next morning, the armored limousine waited in the circular driveway, silent and imposing like a hearse.

I stood by the open door, waiting.

Damien emerged from the front door, his arm wrapped securely around Vivian's waist.

He was guiding her down the steps as if the stairs were made of landmines.

He glanced at me, a flicker of guilt passing through his eyes, but his grip on her didn't loosen.

"You sit in the back with us," Damien said to Vivian. "Estelle, take the jump seat."

The jump seat.

Facing them.

I climbed in and sat backward, forced to watch them as the car pulled away.

Damien spent the entire ride discussing security protocols with Vivian.

"I've doubled the guard at the perimeter," he said, covering her hand with his. "No one gets near you."

He didn't look at me once.

We arrived at *L'Eclat*, a boutique that laundered more money for the Outfit than it made selling gowns.

The staff scrambled to greet us.

"Don Jones," the manager said, bowing slightly. "We have the private suite ready."

Damien nodded. "Show Estelle the bridal collection. The best you have."

He stayed by Vivian's side, guiding her to a velvet sofa, acting as her personal guard dog while I was led to the racks of white silk.

I picked a dress at random.

It was a mermaid cut with lace sleeves. Beautiful. Pointless.

I put it on in the changing room and walked out to the podium.

Damien looked up from his phone.

For a second, the mask slipped.

He looked at me with that raw, hungry desperation that had kept me trapped for eight years.

"Estelle," he breathed, standing up. "You look..."

"I want to try it on," Vivian interrupted.

The spell broke.

Damien turned to her, blinking as if waking from a trance. "What?"

"I never had a real wedding," Vivian said, pouting. "Aaron and I eloped. I just want to see what it feels like. Just for a minute."

It was a power play. Pure and simple.

"Vivian, that's Estelle's dress," Damien said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Please, Damien?" She touched her stomach. "For the baby? I want him to feel his mother happy."

Damien sighed and looked at me.

"Estelle, *Tesoro*," he said, using the pet name that used to make my knees weak. "It's just a dress. Let her have this moment. She's hormonal."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man who was supposed to be my protector.

"Take it," I said.

I walked back to the changing room, unzipped the dress, and handed it to the attendant.

A few minutes later, Vivian emerged in the gown. It was too tight, straining at the seams, but she preened in front of the mirror.

"Can you zip it up?" she asked me, smirking in the reflection. "My arms are so sore."

Damien nodded at me. "Help her, Estelle. Don't let her trip."

I walked over behind her.

I reached for the zipper.

"You look ridiculous," I whispered so only she could hear.

Vivian's eyes met mine in the mirror.

"I look like the Queen," she whispered back.

Then, she reached out and grabbed the heavy iron rack of mannequins next to us to strike a pose.

She pulled it hard, losing her balance.

"Damien!" she screamed.

The rack, loaded with fifty pounds of metal and fabric, tipped over.

Damien moved with a speed that wasn't human.

He launched himself across the room.

He didn't reach for me.

He dove for Vivian, tackling her away from the falling metal, shielding her body with his own, wrapping her in a protective cocoon.

The iron rack crashed down.

It didn't hit the floor.

It hit me.

The metal bar slammed into my shoulder and ribs with a sickening crunch.

I collapsed, the weight pinning me to the hardwood floor.

White-hot pain exploded in my chest, stealing my breath.

I lay there in the debris, gasping, tasting copper in my mouth.

Damien scrambled up, lifting Vivian, checking her frantically for scratches.

"Are you hurt? Did it hit the stomach?" he shouted.

"I'm scared!" Vivian wailed, burying her face in his neck.

"Get the car!" Damien yelled at his men. "Now!"

He scooped her up and ran toward the exit.

He didn't look back.

He didn't check the pile of metal.

He didn't see me lying broken on the floor, watching his back disappear through the glass doors.