On the night before our wedding, my fiancé Dante—the Underboss of the Moretti family—was diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress disorder after a gunfight, and he had supposedly lost all memory of me.

Around the same time, I discovered I was pregnant.

"Perhaps a child," the doctor suggested, "could awaken the part of him that still loves you deep down."

I clung to that hope until I overheard their conversation at the boxing gym.

"Faking PTSD to dump the Principessa? Damn, Dante, that's cold," one of his men laughed.

"Shut up," he said impatiently, but there was no anger in his voice. He was enjoying it.

"I'll marry her. But not now," he said. "First, I'm going to have some fun."

Another voice sneered. "You mean, by fucking her cousin and those whores? Dante, that's bold, even for you."

Dante just chuckled. "You don't get it. Those women... I can't resist the thrill. It's fucking addictive."

Without a word, I turned and walked away.

That night, I scheduled an abortion at a private clinic.

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1

My fiancé, Dante—the man who’d sworn to love me forever—was at his club, wallowing in the debauchery of the VIP room.

He was surrounded by a gaggle of women barely out of their teens, their shrill laughter echoing off the walls.

"Harder, come on! Oh, boss..."

"Ah! Rougher... I don't think I can take any more!"

Over the phone, I heard the familiar voice of my cousin, Carina—panting and moaning shamelessly.

In his stupor, Dante hadn't even realized he had butt-dialed me.

I couldn't fucking believe it. My fiancé. My own cousin. Wallowing in their own filthy world.

A wave of nausea burned its way up my throat.

I hung up and drove straight to the clinic.

That night, I returned to the Falcone Estate.

It was the home that had once been mine, a place I hadn't set foot in since Dante and I started “courting.”

As the Principessa of the Falcone family, I had been willing to sacrifice everything for Dante—my status, my pride.

But now, I finally saw how blind I had been.

When the Falcone family doctor learned of my decision, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Isabella, this child represents the union of the Falcone and Moretti families. You know the stakes. Are you sure about this? If Dante finds out, the shock might cause him to relapse."

A bitter smile twisted my lips as my gaze fell to my flat stomach.

"If he found out, he'd probably fake a goddamn heart attack."

After all, he was still tangled up with the fresh-faced girls at his club.

How was this possible? The man who had wept when he proposed to me was now faking an illness just to cheat.

Unable to sway me, the doctor drew up the surgical papers with a heavy sigh.

But he still insisted on calling Dante.

"Isabella, this child isn't just yours. Dante has a right to be here, illness or not. He should be signing these papers with you. What if this is all just a terrible misunderstanding?"

I didn't stop him.

Deep down, I knew this child had been the strongest bond between us—a bond I cherished, because I knew how difficult it was for me to conceive.

When I was diagnosed with endometriosis, Dante had been my rock. He’d claimed he loved me enough to defy his own parents, fighting them tooth and nail to marry me.

Now, as I chose to give up our child, the least he could do was be here to say goodbye.

But when the call connected, cold, dismissive laughter crackled through the receiver.

"Isabella's pregnant? Impossible. How much did my dear Principessa pay you to spin this little fairy tale? If she thinks a child will force my hand, tell her to dream on. Who the fuck knows if that kid is even mine?"

The line went dead, his laughter echoing like a curse in the sterile operating room.

I signed the papers myself, closing my eyes as the ink dried.

When I woke up after the surgery, my phone was filled with a dozen messages from Dante.

Dante: Isabella, I can't believe how little you care about me. I'm sick, and you're still pressuring me to get married? You, the Falcone Principessa, stooping to a fake pregnancy to trap me? As of now, we're done. Move out. I don't want to see you again.

The bitter thought hit me like a slap—he had the fucking audacity to kick me out of the penthouse I’d bought with my own dowry. The Morettis had muscle, but they never had that kind of cash.

I glanced at the bloody gauze, the only trace of the child that would never be, and calmly replied, "Okay."

He didn't deserve to be a father.

In the three days I spent recovering in the hospital, he never once showed up.

But his social media became a highlight reel of parties, alcohol, and fawning women—a clear message that he was making up for lost time.

I knew he was posting it all for me, so I gave him what he wanted and liked every single post.

On the day of my discharge, as I was handling the paperwork, I glanced up to an unbelievable sight: Dante and the Falcone family doctor in the hallway, rushing a gurney toward the emergency room.

What the hell was the Moretti Underboss doing in a hospital on Falcone turf? It made no sense.

Dante's eyes met mine for less than a second before he quickly looked away, pretending not to know me.

However, the ER doctor's urgent shouts reached me clearly.

"Prep OR one! We need Rh-negative blood, stat! Patient's got a ruptured ovarian cyst from the crash, massive internal bleeding—she needs a transfusion now!"

"What? The blood bank is empty?"

After a quick call, the doctor rushed over to Dante and whispered something in his ear.

Dante stopped in his tracks.

The next moment, he turned and strode toward me, a flicker of desperation on his face.

"Isabella, donate blood to Carina, and I'll forget I ever saw you stalking me," he said, his voice urgent yet dripping with sickening entitlement.

I froze, a harsh laugh escaping my lips.

"I wasn't stalking you."

"Stop making excuses! A life is on the line!"

He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the doctor.

"She's Rh-negative. Take as much as you need, just keep Carina alive!"

I struggled against his grip, but his hand tightened like a vice, forcing me forward.

My voice was ice. "You wanted to cut all ties, remember? So how the hell would you know my blood type?"

I stared at him, waiting for an answer.

Dante was pacing outside the emergency room like a caged animal, his agitation radiating off him in waves.

His voice cut through the air, sharp and relentless.

"Isabella, now is not the time for a fight! We were together for six years, and Carina is your goddamn cousin! Of course I know your blood type."

I remained silent, my body feeling like it might collapse at any moment.

I had just had an abortion. I was still bleeding.

And here he was, demanding I donate blood for his mistress.

Not only was the surgery physically draining, but the Rh-negative bloodline in the Falcone family was dangerously thin.

Donating blood now would be dangerous—it would be risky even in perfect health.

Besides, why should I risk my life for a man like this?

Hadn't Dante considered the consequences when he brought his mistress onto Falcone turf?

Everyone knew we were engaged. The Falcone-Moretti union was supposed to reshape the landscape of New York City's underworld.

And yet, for the sake of my cousin, he had dragged the honor of both our families through the mud.

"I just had an abortion," I said calmly.

"I can't donate blood. Find someone else."

Dante's anger flared, his words scorching.

"Isabella! You always said you loved me. Now I'm just asking for a little of your blood, and you're using an abortion as an excuse? This is the real you. You'd rather let Carina die than lift a finger to help. I can't believe I ever loved someone so cold and heartless."

His accusation struck me like a physical blow.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he had never loved me.

Because if he had, he wouldn't have faked an illness to cheat on me.

He wouldn't have ignored the deep exhaustion on my face and tried to force me to give blood for his mistress.

And he certainly wouldn't have slept with my cousin.

A harsh alarm blared from a nearby monitor, breaking the tense standoff.

A team of ER doctors wheeled Carina into an operating room.

In a fit of sheer frustration, Dante threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hauled me toward the blood donation area.

"Isabella, whether you like it or not, I'll owe you for this," he said gruffly.

"Hell, if it makes you happy, I'll even marry you on our original date."

This was the future Don of the Moretti family—cold, reckless, and willing to do anything to get his way.

I stopped fighting.

So be it. This would settle an old debt.

He’d taken a bullet for me once, during an ambush by a rival family. This blood would make us even.

As the crimson blood flowed into the bag, a chill seeped into my bones.

After the donation, Dante rushed after the nurse toward the operating room without so much as a glance in my direction.

As his back disappeared down the hall, I whispered to the empty space, "Now, we're even, Dante."

Later, I woke up in a hospital bed, exhaustion weighing on me like lead.

The doctor's voice cut through the haze.

"You can't donate blood again for at least six months," the doctor said sternly. "If you try, it could kill you."

I nodded weakly, a faint, detached smile on my lips.

After he left, I checked my phone.

The hospital had made over a dozen calls to Dante's emergency contact number.

None had been answered.

Instead, there was a single text from Dante.

Dante: Stop playing the victim, Isabella. It's time you learned your place.

I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity.

In that moment, the last vestiges of warmth I held for him froze solid.

I couldn't reconcile the man I once loved with the monster behind these venomous words.

I didn't reply. I spent the next few days recovering in silence.

When I finally felt better, I dragged myself to the hospital garden, hoping the sun might melt the ice inside me.

My path was blocked by a group of Dante’s men, their arms laden with bouquets and fruit baskets. For one stupid, hopeful second, I thought they were for me.

I turned to leave, but they blocked my way, their taunts like sharp barbs.

"Well, look who it is. The great Falcone Principessa. Dante's got a new girl, and you're still here playing the victim? Pathetic."

"Isn't this a bit much? Just a little blood donation, and she's acting this weak. What a drama queen."

"Looks like even the Principessa can't keep her man. Got played by her own cousin. Fucking hilarious."

Their words stung, but I steadied myself and glared back at them.

"Don't you forget, the Falcone name carries weight the Morettis can only dream of. Say one more word, and I'll drag Dante's name through the gutter right alongside yours."

They froze, momentarily speechless.

Before they could retort, Dante emerged from the stairwell.

His gaze fell on me, his brow furrowed with irritation.

"Isabella, really? You have to pick a fight with my men?"

His tone grew colder, each word suffocating.

"I already said I'd marry you. What more do you want? Stop faking sickness to spy on me. If you pull this shit after we're married, it won't look good for either of our families."

"Don't bother. I don't need a pity marriage to save face for our families."

For six years, I had given him his freedom.

When he wanted to drink, I would sit with him quietly, never rushing him.

If my presence was inconvenient, I would leave, waiting without complaint for his call to pick him up.

When he was drunk, I cared for him with endless patience.

When he wanted to go on "business trips" with his friends—seeking thrills and all-night parties—I planned their itineraries, bought their tickets, and mapped their routes.

I even refused when he offered to let me check his phone.

I loved him, but I was terrified my status as Principessa would suffocate him, so I never tried to chain him down.

I was determined not to repeat my mother's mistakes, whose suffocating expectations drove my father further and further away.

I thought I had navigated our relationship perfectly, that we had found a stable, happy medium.

Before his betrayal, we were still like a couple in the throes of new love.

He desired me, his hunger for me insatiable.

But now I finally saw the truth—he loved me, yes. But he also loved the thrill of any woman who wasn't me, unable to resist temptation.

Was that why he faked his illness? To chase a new kind of thrill? He had even covered the tattoo of my name over his heart with Carina's.

Our eyes met, but there was no love in his.

The questions that burned on my tongue died in my throat, leaving only silence.

As I stared him down, Dante frowned.

He snatched a bouquet from one of his men and shoved it into my arms.

"Here," he muttered, shoving the flowers at me. "Take the damn things and go."

In his eyes, I was still that simple little girl, satisfied by the smallest of gestures.

It never occurred to him that I was the Falcone Principessa, a woman who had seen the world.

My contentment never came from the gifts—it came from loving him.

He couldn't comprehend that when I said I wouldn't marry him, I meant it.

I handed the flowers back to the man who’d offered them.

"These are for Carina, not me. Consider the blood a gift. You owe me nothing."

For a moment, Dante's expression faltered.

A flicker of panic crossed his face.

"Isabella... Carina and I... we're nothing. I still love you."

I smiled faintly.

"Okay. You go take care of my dear cousin. I'm going to handle my discharge papers. Go on. Do what you need to do."

My words stung him.

He stiffened, then turned his head to the side, hiding his discomfort.

"Come on, Dante, Carina's waiting," one of them urged. Another one added, "Yeah, she almost died for you—not like some people who think a little blood buys them a wedding ring." A third one grinned, "She'll get jealous if you don't hurry back. Besides, we've got a new girl lined up for you tonight!"

"Isabella's just putting on an act. She'll come crawling back. Women are all the same. You're too soft on her, boss."

Their words were meant to hurt, but I felt nothing.

Only a cold numbness, as if I were standing on the frozen Hudson River in the dead of winter, forever cut off from all warmth.

After Dante left, I called the one person I trusted, the penthouse housekeeper, and asked her to pack my things.

Custom gowns, photo albums, art pieces—everything I’d brought into this home vanished. With each item, the fragile dream of our future flaked away, revealing the brutal truth underneath.

The housekeeper stared at the empty, sterile apartment and hesitated.

"Principessa, all of this was for the wedding. Are you really throwing it all away?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice calm and distant.

"The groom is dead," I said flatly. "This is a funeral."

At my words, her hands trembled, and she dared not say more, carefully disposing of the wedding photos and the Moretti family engagement ring.

Once the apartment was cleared, I stood at the door with my suitcase.

I looked at the once-familiar door and deleted my fingerprint and iris data from the lock on my phone.

From this moment on, this was no longer my home.