After the Miscarriage, I Stopped Being a Stepmother to Don's Heir

Leon frowned. "Less talking. More resting."

I twisted the blanket in my fists, pressing creases into the fabric.

"The day I told you I was pregnant, you wanted me to get rid of it, didn't you? You never said it out loud, but it was all over your face."

That same afternoon, Giselle had shown up at our door, furious. I could hear them arguing through the wall, her voice sharp enough to hurt.

"Leon Santoro, don't you forget what you promised me. Rosalie is your only child."

"She has an IQ of 148. You swore to her she'd be the heir. That's the only reason I stopped trying for more. And now you're going to make Scarlett keep it? Get rid of it. Now."

Leon's voice came back slow and even, like cold water.

"The reason I divorced you is because you keep forgetting your place."

"I'll say it one more time: don't tell me what to do. I make my own decisions."

Silence.

Then Giselle's crying leaked through the crack under the door, steady and relentless, draining away every bit of joy I'd felt about the life growing inside me.

"Even if you don't care about me," she sobbed, "think about Rosalie. The doctors said her high IQ comes with high sensitivity. Another child doesn't just take away her father, it threatens her. Everything she's been groomed to be, the future heir of the entire East Coast operation, that's gone the moment you have another kid."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

When Leon thought, he tapped the table with his index finger. That night, the knocking sounded different, restless and almost angry.

The next morning, I quietly ironed his coat and saw him to the door. As he left, I said, "Watch yourself out there. Dodge the bullets. You're going to be a father."

He smiled faintly. "I already am a father."

Right. He already was — Rosalie was his only child.

My legs went weak. I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself.

He caught my arm. "Careful. You're going to be a mother."

It should have been a happy thing to say, but there wasn't a trace of happiness on his face.