On the third day after Dante left, I knew something was seriously wrong.

The dull ache in my abdomen had turned into a sharp, tearing agony. Every breath felt like a knife twisting inside me. Worse, I had started bleeding intermittently.

At three in the morning, I was curled up on the guest room bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Waves of pain crashed over me, making it hard to stay conscious.

I fumbled for my phone and dialed Dante's emergency line—the number he swore he would always answer, no matter what.

It rang for a long time before he picked up.

"Isabella?" His voice was annoyed. The sound of soft classical music and a woman's light laugh echoed in the background. "It's three in the morning in New York. What is it?"

"Dante..." My voice was so weak it startled me. "Something's wrong. The wound... I'm bleeding a lot, and the pain..."

"Isabella, listen to me," he cut me off, his voice sharp. "I'm in the middle of a critical negotiation. Can you just..."

"Dante, I think I need to go to the hospital," I said through gritted teeth, trying not to sound desperate. "The pain isn't normal, and..."

"Isabella!" he snapped. "The second I'm not there, you fall apart. I need a partner, Isabella, not some fragile thing that breaks."

In the background, I heard Seraphina's sweet voice. "Dante, Dr. Hoffman is waiting for us..."

"I'll be right there," he said to her, then his voice to me turned cold again. "Isabella, if it's a real problem, call an ambulance. I'll have a driver sent. But I can't leave right now. What I'm dealing with here is more important."

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen as another wave of pain hit me. More important? More important than his wife's life?

I struggled to get out of bed, trying to make it to the living room for painkillers. But as soon as I stood, a violent spasm of pain sent me crashing to the floor.

The floor was cold. My vision started to blur.

With my last bit of strength, I dialed 911.

Everything after that is a haze. The wail of sirens, a stretcher, the blinding white lights of a hospital.

"Nurse, get the ultrasound ready."

I was on a gurney in the ER. A young female doctor was moving a probe over my stomach.

"Mrs. Torrino?" She looked from the screen to me, her expression turning serious. "We need to talk."

"What?"

"You're pregnant. About six or seven weeks. But..." she paused. "Due to the infection and blood loss, the fetus is unstable. We need to operate immediately to deal with the infection, but the surgery carries a major risk to the pregnancy."

Pregnant?

I stared blankly at the ceiling. Six or seven weeks ago... That was the last time Dante and I were truly together. Before Seraphina. Before everything fell apart.

"Mrs. Torrino? Did you hear me?" The doctor's voice pulled me back. "This is an emergency. We need you or your husband to sign the consent forms for surgery. If we don't operate now, both you and the baby could die."

"I... I need to call my husband."

The doctor nodded and handed me my phone.

I dialed Dante's number again. He answered quickly this time.

"Isabella, I'm in the middle of—"

"Dante," I cut him off. "I'm at the hospital. The doctors say I need emergency surgery. They need your signature."

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds.

"Surgery? What kind of surgery? Is it serious?"

"The infection is worse than we thought, and..." I took a deep breath. "I'm preg—"

Before I could finish, Dante's voice was firm. "I'm coming back. Cancel everything, get the jet ready—"

Just as a sliver of hope sparked in me, I heard her voice.

"Dante?" Seraphina sounded concerned. "What's wrong? You look so stressed..."

His voice instantly softened. "Seraphina, something's come up. I might have to—"

"Is it Isabella?" Her tone was laced with annoyance. "What is it now? Dante, you can't let her lead you around by the nose. The doctor said my recovery depends on a stable, supportive environment. If you leave now..."

Her voice broke. "I had that nightmare again last night... with the gunshots. If you're not here with me, I don't know what I'll do..."

"Baby, don't cry..." Dante's voice was full of heartache.

I heard a rustling sound, like he was pulling her into an embrace.

A few moments later, he was back on the phone, his voice cold and distant.

"Isabella, I'm having my lawyer send the authorization to the hospital. You're strong, Isabella. You can handle this."

"Right now, Seraphina needs me more," he said, without a trace of hesitation. And just like that, he chose.

The line went dead.

I clutched the phone as another spasm of pain seized me. The doctor returned with the consent form.

"Mrs. Torrino? When will your husband arrive? We can't delay the surgery any longer."

I looked at her concerned face and thought of Dante's gentle voice comforting Seraphina.

I bit down hard on my lip and looked the doctor straight in the eye. "I'll sign it myself."

The surgery was a success. The infection was gone, but so was the baby.

I buried the miscarriage certificate deep in my medical file. I didn't want Dante to ever know about the little life that had been. It would only make me look weaker in his eyes, and it wouldn't change a thing.

At first, Dante sent a few texts.

"How are you feeling?"

"What did the doctors say?"

"Need me to arrange anything?"

I didn't reply to any of them. It wasn't about being petty. I just had nothing left to say.

On the fourth day, his message changed.

"Isabella, your silence is childish."

Sixth day:

"I know you're angry, but Seraphina really needs me. She had another nightmare last night."

Eighth day:

"You should learn to be more forgiving. Seraphina lost her brother. Her pain is greater than yours."

I stared at that message and almost laughed. Greater pain? I had lost my husband, my child, and all faith in my marriage, but in his eyes, none of it mattered next to Seraphina's bad dream.

On the tenth day, the doctor cleared me for discharge. I sent Dante a simple text: "Pick me up at 2 PM today."

He replied immediately: "Okay."

At 2 PM sharp, Dante appeared at my hospital room door. He was in a dark blue, tailored suit, looking as handsome and elegant as ever. But when he saw me, his face was a mask of shock.

"Isabella... you've lost so much weight."

I glanced at my reflection. I'd dropped ten pounds in ten days. My cheekbones were sharp, and my clothes hung off my frame.

"Hospitals do that to you," I said calmly, picking up my bag. "We can go."

"Isabella." He reached for my arm, but I subtly pulled away. "About that night... I'm sorry. I should have been there for you."

"It's fine," I said, walking toward the door. "You were right. I'm strong."

He followed me, looking like he wanted to say more, but he kept his mouth shut.

The drive home was silent. As we passed the street where I'd been attacked, I saw Dante shoot me a nervous glance. I gave no reaction. The Isabella who could be broken by a memory had died on that operating table.

"There's a family meeting tonight," he said as we neared the apartment. "The Don wants to see you. About the Eastside port project."

"I know," I said, staring out the window.

"Isabella." He stopped the car and turned to me. "Seraphina will be at the meeting with me."

I finally looked at him. "She's not a member of the family."

"But she's Luca's sister. The Don wants to meet her, to hear about her brother's last days." His tone was defensive. "It's good for her recovery, too."

"Whatever you want," I said, getting out of the car. "I'll have the reports ready."

That night, at eight o'clock, we arrived at the Don's estate. Old Don Torrino's sharp eyes scanned everyone at the long table.

Dante sat at the Don's right hand. I sat next to Dante, and Seraphina sat on his other side.

"Isabella," the Don began, "I hear you were in the hospital. Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Just an old wound acting up. It's healed now," I replied.

"Good. Then let's get to business." He looked at the files on the table. "How is the Eastside port project coming along?"

I had been running that project for six months. I knew every detail. I began my report, laying out the progress, projected earnings, and the deals we'd struck with the city.

But halfway through, Dante cut me off. "Father, the key breakthrough on this project came from Seraphina's help. Her brother Luca had deep connections at the port authority. Through Seraphina, we were able to secure those crucial permits."

I stopped talking, staring at him in disbelief.

Seraphina lowered her head modestly. "I just wanted to do something for Dante and the family. My brother always said we owed Don Torrino a debt of gratitude."

Before I could speak, Dante spoke again. "On top of that, Seraphina has helped us connect with several new investors in recent months. Her network in Europe has been very useful."

It was a complete lie.

All of it was my work, now being credited to her.

The Don's gaze turned to me, his eyes hardening. "Isabella, as the family's advisor, it seems you haven't been involved enough in these important matters."

"I..."

"Father, you can't blame Isabella," Dante continued. "She hasn't been well. Seraphina has been picking up the slack. Maybe it's time we reconsidered her role."

Reconsidered her role. He was pushing me out. He wanted to replace me with her.

I watched it all unfold with a strange sense of calm. I finally saw Dante for who he was: a man who would betray his wife for a new flame without a second thought, a man who would lie to the face of his own family.

"Then do as you see fit," I said quietly.

As we were leaving the estate, Dante said he was going to drive Seraphina back to her apartment himself.

"You go on home, Isabella," he said, avoiding my eyes. "I'll be back later."

Seraphina was holding his arm, the two of them looking for all the world like a real couple.

An hour later, I was in the home office organizing files when my phone buzzed with a text.

It was from Seraphina.

It was a picture of a tattoo design. I recognized the pattern—the intricate rose on Dante's left chest, encircling a name.

That name used to be "Isabella."

In this new design, it was "Seraphina."

Beneath the photo was a line of text: "It'll be finished tomorrow. Thanks for stepping aside, Isabella."

I stared at the picture, remembering when he got that tattoo. It was our first anniversary. He said he wanted to carve my name over his heart, to make me a part of him forever.

Now, he was erasing that "forever" for another woman.

I sent Dante a text.

[We're done.]