The storm had passed, but Alessandro’s penthouse still felt dark. He sat alone in the cavernous office, city lights flickering like dying embers through the rain-slicked windows. The espresso he had made earlier sat untouched beside him, cold and bitter. The sharp aroma of roasted beans only heightened his nausea. It was quiet now. A hollow, loaded quiet. The kind that filled a room when you knew something had already gone wrong—and the worst part was yet to come. The call to his private investigator was done. The wheels were in motion. But now came the part he loathed: the waiting. Alessandro leaned forward and tapped the tablet with a single finger. The tabloid article glared back at him like an accusation. Pregnant. With his child. That truth still churned in him like oil and fire. It didn’t matter that Isabel had screamed it in his face, trembling, vulnerable. That moment was burned into him—but so were the photos. The leaks. The betrayal. He opened the email again—the fi
Morning came slowly over Manhattan, slipping between towers like a thief with cold fingers and no remorse. The sky was a dull steel gray, the kind that blurred the line between dawn and despair. Rain clung to the glass walls of Alessandro’s penthouse, smearing the cityscape into watery streaks of light and shadow. Inside, the silence was thick. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that followed a storm and waited for the next one. Alessandro De’Luca sat in his penthouse office, still in the same dress shirt from the night before. The top two buttons were undone. His tie was crumpled on the edge of the desk, and a glass of whiskey, untouched since 2 a.m., sat near his elbow, now dulled with melted ice. He hadn’t slept. Not a second. His inbox had started buzzing before sunrise. Messages. Alerts. Pings from his PR team. And one link sent by four different people. It was the first thing he’d opened. He was still staring at it now. “De’Luca Dynasty Scandal: Billionaire Heir Expectin
Jenna Mile’s apartment was immaculate—almost obsessively so. The kind of clean that made the air feel sterile, like a room that hadn’t been lived in, only curated. Pale gray walls. Minimalist decor. One couch. One coffee table. A glass of untouched wine sweating quietly beside her laptop. The dim light of early evening bled through the curtains in slanted beams. Rain tapped against the windows in a soft, almost soothing rhythm. But the quiet was deceptive. Beneath it buzzed a storm far more dangerous than the one outside. On the screen in front of her, paused at the exact frame she liked best, was a video of Isabel and Alessandro. In his penthouse. Laughing. Then kissing. Then touching. Jenna pressed play again. The intimacy was unbearable. Not for the people in the video—but for her. She watched as Alessandro leaned into Isabel, his hand sliding over her waist with the kind of possessive tenderness Jenna had never received. She watched it all. Every kiss. Every stolen look.
The room felt suddenly colder, as if the air itself recoiled from Isabel’s revelation. The rain outside hammered against the window with relentless fury, matching the storm inside her apartment building. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Alessandro’s eyes were wide, as if trying to process the words, to bend reality around them and make sense of this new, seismic truth. His chest heaved, breath uneven. Isabel sat rigid, her heart pounding, waiting for a response she wasn’t sure she wanted. She hated how vulnerable she felt, exposed and raw in front of him. For months, she had tried to keep that secret safe inside her, a fragile ember she dared not let burn too bright. But now the ember had exploded into flames. “Pregnant,” he finally breathed. “Yeah.” Her voice was hoarse, cracked from crying. He looked like the world had just slipped beneath his feet. His eyes darted around the room, as if searching for an escape hatch from this new reality. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The rain tapped steadily against the windowpanes of Isabel’s apartment, a relentless percussion that matched the pounding in her chest. The gray light filtered through the curtains in dull sheets, draping the room in a melancholic haze. Outside, the city was washed clean but heavy with storm clouds, mirroring the turmoil brewing within her. Isabel sat curled on the faded sofa, her phone clenched in trembling hands. The message from the night before still glowed on the screen, an open wound: “You thought you could have him? Think again.” She hadn’t slept. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and a heart aching with desperation. A sudden knock at the door shattered the fragile quiet. Her breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She wasn’t expecting anyone—not at this hour. Another knock, more urgent. She set the phone down, voice barely a whisper. “Who is it?” “Isabel. Open up.” The voice was sharp. Commanding. Alessandro. She hesitated. Her mind scra
The city sprawled beneath Alessandro’s penthouse like a constellation of stars—glittering, distant, and unknowable. The lights flickered softly through the massive windows, casting fractured reflections on the polished marble floor. Outside, the metropolis was alive, oblivious to the storm brewing inside the glass fortress at its summit. Inside the dimly lit office, Alessandro paced, every movement sharp and restless, like a predator stalking its prey. The last few hours had been a slow descent into chaos, the poisonous tendrils of paranoia weaving tightly around his mind. The scent of expensive whiskey lingered faintly on the air, untouched since last night’s retreat into the sanctuary of solitude. His phone buzzed again, shrill and relentless. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sat behind the massive oak desk—his empire’s command center—and opened his laptop. The glow of the screen illuminated his dark features, accentuating the lines of tension carved deep into his face.