Chapter 3

By midnight, I was burning with fever.

It took an entire night of treatment before my condition stabilized.

Somewhere in the haze, I felt arms gather me close, warming my chilled body. Carlo's voice was rough with lingering fear.

"That's it. Go back to sleep. Once your fever breaks, we'll take you home."

Out of habit, I leaned toward him. A tear slid from the corner of my eye.

Three years earlier, Carlo had just taken control of the family. Rival factions were fighting for power, and violence seemed to follow us everywhere.

When I was kidnapped and dragged to an abandoned warehouse, Carlo had taken a bullet meant for me.

I'd believed a man willing to give up his life for me would always protect me. Always cherish me.

Now I understood that people could change.

Even the greatest love could be destroyed by distrust.

A light rain fell on the day I was discharged.

As soon as we arrived at the estate, I went straight to the nursery.

I stopped dead in the doorway.

The room I'd decorated so carefully was empty.

The handmade crib I'd commissioned. The pacifiers I'd chosen. The toys I'd bought. Every last thing was gone.

Carlo appeared behind me.

"I thought seeing it would upset you, so I had Enzo clear it out before you came home."

He sounded as if he'd done me a favor.

I pointed at the wall.

"Where's the ultrasound picture? The one I put right there?"

He hesitated, then shrugged.

"Mia wanted to see it. I gave it to her."

Anger surged through me.

"That was the only picture of our baby! How could you give it away?"

Carlo pinched the bridge of his nose impatiently.

"If the paternity test says the baby wasn't mine, that photograph will only remind me, over and over, that you fell in love with another man. Let it go. Pushing this will only humiliate us both."

Tears spilled down my face.

So I wasn't even allowed to grieve my own child.

Over the next few days, Carlo canceled every meeting and stayed at the estate with me.

He cooked my favorite pasta himself. Every night, he pulled me firmly into his arms as we slept.

I never once looked his way, but he kept at it every day, all so I'd recover.

One night, he whispered against my ear, "You're still hiding that man from me? The test results will be ready in two days."

My heart raced. My lips trembled.

For one fleeting second, I wanted to ask him to forget the report. To choose me instead of a piece of paper.

If he could just believe me, maybe we could start again.

Then, the next morning, I found a sheet of paper on the living room table.

It was covered in dates: his business trips and the last times we'd slept together.

With shaking hands, I carried it to him.

"Did you write this? What are you trying to calculate?"

Carlo barely glanced up.

"I'm trying to find proof."

I tore the sheet into tiny pieces in front of him.

"We slept together plenty of times back then! How is that not proof?"

His suspicious look deepened.

"The more hysterical you get, the harder it is to believe you."

Something inside me went quiet.

There was nothing left of the love I'd been desperately holding on to.

Carlo couldn't see my grief or my helplessness. All he saw was a woman losing her mind.

I stopped arguing, went straight to the bedroom, and took out the divorce agreement I'd already printed.

I was about to hand it to him when the front door opened.