After My Miscarriage, the Don Lost Everything

I was the lawfully wedded wife of Vincent, the youngest Don the Jones Family had ever produced. Eight months pregnant. I counted myself blessed to have married such a good man.

A month earlier, a young surgical resident had tried to seduce Vincent with nude photos. He had refused her, sharply. I had never doubted what we had.

Then came the late-night pain. A tearing agony in my lower abdomen that ripped me out of sleep. I could feel the baby inside me fighting, weakening, fading. Cord around the neck. I knew.

The anesthesiologist was preparing the push. The lead surgeon was already reaching for the scalpel.

The door slammed open.

Vincent stood in the doorway, his black bespoke suit damp with night dew, none of the usual warmth on his face. Only the cold, bone-deep indifference that belonged to a mafia Don.

He said one thing. Light as a feather, yet it drove through my heart like a poisoned blade.

"All lead surgeons, anesthesiologists, and rotating nurses—reassigned to the penthouse VIP maternity ward. Now."

The maternity ward went dead silent.

My blood turned to ice. I gripped the edge of the bed with the last of my strength, my voice shaking so badly I could barely speak.

"Vincent—what are you doing? The baby's dying!"

He walked to the side of the operating table and looked down at me without a trace of pity.

"Layla. Clara is also eight months along. Her water just broke. The fetus is in distress. She could lose her life and the baby's at any moment."

Clara.

That name had been lodged in my heart like a poisoned thorn for an entire year.

A year ago, during the evaluation panel for her residency exam, I had walked into the back room and seen her strip naked in front of the camera, taunting Vincent during his surgical review meeting.

Vincent had knelt before me and sworn he'd fired her. Sworn he had cut her off completely.

Turned out they had never been cut off at all.

Turned out she was eight months pregnant too—almost to the exact same week as my child.

"If something happens to her, the doctors on call can handle it. What gives you the right to pull every single person out of my maternity ward?"

I locked my eyes on his, tears streaming down my face.

"Vincent—this is your child too! Your rightful heir!"

"I know."

His fingertips brushed across my sweat-soaked cheek. His voice was flat in a way that turned my stomach.

"But you already have the title of Donna of the Jones Family. You have the respect of all London high society. You control Coastal Summit. Layla, I believe in fairness. Clara has nothing. Her child must be born safely."

I almost laughed out loud. The pain in my belly and the suffocation in my chest tangled together until my vision went black.

Fairness?

The fairness he meant was trading my life and my child's life for the safety of his mistress and his bastard.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced down, and his breath caught. His eyes darkened.

When he looked up again, the last trace of hesitation—so faint I'd almost imagined it—was gone.

He turned and walked out, leaving behind one cold order that echoed through the empty maternity ward:

"No one operates on her without my permission."

The door slammed shut. I heard the bodyguards lock it from the outside.

The surgical lights burned on, blinding, while I lay alone in that maternity ward, a dying woman in labor.

Blood pooled under me, heavier and heavier. The baby's movements grew weaker, weaker, until they stopped.

I slapped at the operating table with what strength I had left. I screamed for help. Nothing answered but silence.

"Someone—please—save my baby—"

The last thing I heard before I lost consciousness was the lock turning and the panicked footsteps of doctors rushing in.