Accidentally Killed His Fiancee

I woke up before Isla.

She lay still beside me, unconscious, her head bandaged and her breathing shallow. The doctors were monitoring her for a possible concussion. I, on the other hand, had no such luxury. The second I opened my eyes, I was dialing my family’s lawyer.

I wanted a divorce.

Rafe Moretti—my husband, the man who left me bleeding in some godforsaken warehouse while he played caretaker to Bianca and her cramps—would never have another claim on my name.

I told my lawyer: file the papers and sent it to Rafe. Like I expected, no word from Rafe, not even a response.

The door opened.

“Mrs. Maretti?” the doctor asked, his voice polite but edged with concern. “You’re stable now, though your injuries are significant. A fractured leg, and a deep abdominal wound. If your sister hadn’t applied pressure when she did… you would’ve bled out.”

“I’m lucky,” I said quietly. “Lucky to have Isla.”

He hesitated—just long enough to make my stomach clench.

“There’s more. We ran a full evaluation… and you were two months pregnant.” A pause. “The trauma from the knife wound caused a miscarriage. I’m sorry, Mrs. Maretti.”

Pregnant?

I blinked. My breath stilled in my throat.

A baby. There had been a baby.

I should’ve cried or screamed. But all I could feel was my body went cold and hollow.

Rafe hadn’t answered the phone. If he had, maybe the kidnappers wouldn’t have hurt me. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost the baby. Maybe Isla wouldn’t still be unconscious in that bed.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I texted Rafe. “Call me. Something about the baby.”

And just like that, the phone rang.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice exploded through the speaker. “How many times have I told you not to mention the baby to me again? Don’t fucking tell me that you were suddenly feeling pregnant. Your ovaries barely function—we’ve been over this.””

I didn’t get a word in.

“Or is this supposed to mock Bianca? She almost lost hers after that hit at the casino. And you—what? Call me a hundred times just for attention?”

“Rafe—” I tried, but he didn’t care.

“Your need for drama doesn’t outweigh Bianca’s safety. I warned you. Don’t use babies to manipulate me.”

“Rafe, it’s my fault,” Bianca’s voice chimed in, sweet and nauseating. “Please don’t be mad at your wife. She… she just wanted to see you—”

“No, Bianca. Don’t blame yourself. She’s always been a drama queen. A lying bitch.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen. I never even got to speak.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, desperately hoping for something—anything—to still be there.

But there was only silence. Only loss.

I never even got to meet them—my baby. Girl or boy, it didn’t matter. They were mine. And they were gone.

Because of Rafe. Because I let myself feel safe in a world where I was nothing but a pawn.

I should’ve known better.

…

The night those men took me, it was inside Rafe’s own casino.

One blink. A turned corner. And I was gone.

Shoved into the back of a van like some discarded luggage.

The warehouse they dragged me to was a skeleton of steel and rust—rotting beams, broken windows, and the kind of silence that made you believe no one would ever hear you scream.

There was a woman among them. She greeted me with a slap before I could even stand. The light was dim, flickering, barely enough to make out shapes—just shadows and sharp edges.

Then a man stepped forward. His voice slithered as he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back.

“So you’re the wife,” he sneered. “Rafe’s little trophy. He’s the bastard who ran my boss’s family out of this city—stole our casino, crushed our name. And now? We want it back. You’re going to help me do that, sweetheart.”

He leaned in, his breath sour against my cheek.

“We’ll call your darling husband. You’ll tell him to hand over the casino. Or we’ll start slicing pieces off you. Clear enough, pretty face?”

I was nothing more than leverage.

And still, I believed—naively, stupidly—that once they got through to Rafe, everything would be okay. That he’d come. That he'd tear the city apart to find me.

But none of their calls went through.

Voicemail. Every single time.

One of them crouched in front of me, gave me a cruel smile, and drove a boot into my leg.

I crumpled, screaming. Pain bloomed white-hot and instant. My vision blurred.

“Guess he doesn’t care if you’re missing,” the man whispered.

And that was when I started to panic.

If Rafe wasn’t answering…or if they couldn’t reach him…Then what use was I?

The leader’s eyes narrowed, flicking toward a knife on the table. Its blade caught the light like it was smiling.

“Please,” I choked, crawling back. “Rafe just… he’s probably in a meeting. He always has his phone. He’ll call back. Just give him time.”

But the man only grinned. “I’m not a patient man.”

He picked up the knife. Walked toward me. And then—he stabbed straight into my stomach.

At first, I felt nothing. Just a strange pressure. And then the pain came. Explosive and consuming.

Warm blood spilled from me in waves, soaking my shirt, pooling at my waist. I tried to hold it in with trembling hands, but it was no use.

Another man snapped, possibly the big boss. “I told you to hurt her not to kill her, you idiot! What good is a corpse to us?”

He shoved the man away, stormed to my side, and crouched. His grip bruised my chin as he tilted my face to the light.

“Don’t die yet, pretty face,” he murmured. “Not until Rafe picks up.”

But my limbs were going numb. My breath short. The warehouse tilted sideways and the edges of the world darkened. I was slipping.

Until another kick jolted me awake.

The leader held up his phone, reading aloud in a mocking voice, “I’m with Bianca. She’s having stomach cramps. Stop calling.”

He laughed. Loud and cruel.

“That cold bastard,” he said. “Doesn’t even realize you’re gone. Guess you were just a pretty placeholder.”

Then he spat on me. “Bad luck. Got the wrong woman.”

Someone asked, “What do we do with her now?”

“She’s bleeding out anyway. Just dump her and go.”

One more kick. And then footsteps. The slam of a metal door.

And nothing. Just me. Alone. Bleeding out in a warehouse that reeked of mold, metal, and rot.