Chapter 3

Rage burned through me.

I remembered the moment Dr. Martin told Vince I was miscarrying.

He didn't care.

I ripped the tape from my arm and sat up, ignoring the nurse's protests.

"Mrs. Moretti, you need to rest—"

"Get out."

I shoved past her, my bare feet hitting the cold floor.

Every step sent a fresh wave of pain through my abdomen, but I didn't care.

It was nothing compared to the agony in my chest.

Sophia's room was on the third floor.

I kicked the door open.

There she was, lying in bed, looking pale and pitiful.

Vince sat beside her, gently dabbing sweat from her forehead.

What a sweet, sick picture.

"Get out." Vince’s face darkened when he saw me. "You've done enough damage."

"Damage?" I laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "You want to know who's been damaged?"

I walked toward him, every step deliberate, filled with murder.

"Our baby is dead, Vince. And you killed him."

"Th-that's not my fault." He stood, squaring his shoulders, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity. "If you hadn't gone after Sophia—"

CRACK.

I slapped him with every ounce of strength I had. Harder than he'd hit me.

Final.

"You bastard!" My voice echoed in the sterile room. "You killed your own child for a whore! Have you forgotten who made you the heir?"

Vince touched the raw, red mark on his cheek. For a long moment, he said nothing. I thought I saw his eyes glisten with tears.

But when he looked at me again, the guilt was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

"The past is the past," he said, his voice dropping, his fists clenching at his sides. "Now? You're just a barren housewife who couldn't give me a child for years. I need an heir. A son to carry the Moretti name. Not some jealous, hysterical woman."

"But I was pregnant... with your child!"

"And he's dead!" Vince shook his head, turning his back on me to face Sophia. "Right now, the only thing that matters is what's inside her. You," he said, his voice utterly void of emotion, "and that dead baby of yours... you're worthless to me now."

Worthless.

He said I, and our child, were worthless.

I looked at him, the man I had loved for five years, and felt nothing but cold, dead ash inside me.

"Vince," my voice was chillingly calm. "Mark my words."

I turned and dragged my hollowed-out body away, every step like walking on shards of glass.

Behind me, I heard him cooing to Sophia.

"Don't cry, baby, our child will be fine. He'll be my only heir."

With our lives on the line, Vince had made his choice.

Now, it was time to make mine.

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing him out of my world for good.

Back home, I went straight to the toolbox and pulled out a hammer.

The first strike shattered our wedding photo, the one where we were smiling so brightly. Glass flew like the fragments of my heart.

The second strike pulverized the diamond on my finger, the one he swore would last forever.

The third, every gift he'd ever given me.

Every crack, every shatter, was a funeral for the child I'd never hold.

I pulled out a new burner phone and dialed a number I hadn't touched in five years.

"DeLuca residence."

"This is Isabella," my voice was dangerously quiet. "I'm coming home."

There was a pause on the other end, then a respectful, immediate reply. "At once, Princess. The jet will be waiting for you at O'Hare in one hour."

I hung up and started to pack.

I took only what was mine. The rest, along with five years of memories, I left for this filthy city.

I stood at the door of the jet, taking one last look at the city that had buried my love and my child.

Isabella, the wife of Vince Moretti, died in Chicago.

The woman returning to New York was the Princess of the DeLuca family.

And I would make them pay.

In blood.