6

Rafe’s face went ghost-pale. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me slightly, like he could rattle the truth he wanted out of me.

He looked devastated.

Good.

Because I was more than devastated. I was wrecked.

I was bleeding out on a warehouse floor while my so-called husband played hero to someone else.

How dare he wear that look of sorrow now and mourn what he destroyed?

I pictured it again—the blade flashing, the blood soaking my skin, the baby's life slipping away before I even knew they existed.

I had never hated Rafe Moretti more than I did standing there in front of him now.

The same man who once promised me the world… had turned his back when I needed him most. Had silenced his phone and practically told the kidnappers not to bother him.

Now he wanted to grieve?

No. He didn't get to.

“If only you’d cared a little more,” I said, my voice low, shaking with fury.

I clenched Isla’s hand tightly in mine.

“I got stabbed, Rafe. Broken. Left for dead. If it weren’t for Isla, I would’ve died there. Alone. Forgotten.”

I felt Isla and her strength holding me upright when I wanted to fall.

“You were no better than those kidnappers.”

My voice broke on the last word, but I didn’t back down.

“And you want to feel sad now?” I sneered. “Save it. You don’t deserve it.”

I squeezed Isla’s hand tighter.

I said, shaking my head slowly. “I should thank God. Because if none of this had happened, maybe I never would’ve seen what you really are.”

Rafe’s face crumpled, desperate, broken. “This isn’t real,” he rasped. “It’s another one of your lies. You’re just trying to hurt me. You’re trying to—”

I laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound.

“I think you should ask your precious Bianca for the truth.”

Bianca froze.

“Oh, you didn’t think I’d find out?” I said sweetly, every word dripping with poison. “I hired a private investigator. Turns out, someone tipped off the Moretti’s enemies. Told them exactly where I’d be. Exactly how to grab me.”

I tilted my head, staring straight into Bianca’s wide, fake-innocent eyes.

“Was it to get me out of the way so you could play happy family with Rafe? Or did you just want me dead?”

Gasps rippled through the hall.

Bianca’s face went ashy. She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came.

"I wasn’t going to say anything," I said softly. "I pitied you. Pity your child, being born into this. But you just had to shove yourself in my face, didn’t you? Play the grieving saint.”

Rafe turned slowly, his body rigid.

“Is it true?” he whispered. “You let my enemies into my casinos? You put my wife—my child—in danger?”

Bianca lunged for him, grabbing his hand. “Rafe, no. I swear, I didn’t do any of that—”

“Car accident?” Adam’s voice cut through the chaos. “What car accident?”

“Our brakes failed,” Isla said, voice trembling but strong.

Adam frowned. “All of your vehicles were serviced last month. I saw the reports myself. There was nothing wrong with the car.”

"Unless," I said softly, flicking my gaze to Bianca, "someone wanted it to look like an accident.”

“Oh, please, Serena, like everyone was busy trying to kill you and your sister?”

The air snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

Isla couldn’t hold back anymore.

She marched straight to Adam and slapped him across the face—hard enough to echo in the quiet courthouse lobby.

She hissed, her voice cracking, “How dare you to mock like that. While I was unconscious, while my sister was bleeding out—she called you. And you said what? Don’t bother you? You were too busy?"

Her eyes turned glassy with tears, her whole body shaking with the weight of it.

"Where were you that night, Adam? Where were you when I needed you most? Oh, right. With that tramp Bianca." She sneered. "You and your uncle—two of a kind. And you still tried to mock your way out of it.”

Adam looked like he’d been struck harder by her words than by the slap. He stood there frozen, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like he couldn't find air.

"That call..." he croaked. "It was from you? About the accident? I—I didn’t know. I thought it was just Isla calling to...to nag me home early. I didn’t know."

His apology came too late. It didn’t matter anymore.

Because when it had mattered—when Isla and I had been a breath away from dying—neither of them had bothered to ask why we were calling. They had just assumed.

Dismissed and ignored us.

I pulled Isla into my arms, holding her tight, patting her trembling back.

"You two," I said, my voice cutting through the space between us, "you don't even deserve to be called husbands—let alone fathers. And thank God neither Isla nor I ever had your children."

I couldn't stop thinking about it—what would've happened if that kind stranger hadn't driven by that night. Would I have bled out? Would Isla have slipped into a coma she'd never wake from?

"Please, Serena," Rafe rasped, stepping closer. His eyes were wet now, desperation painting every inch of his face. "I didn’t know. If I had—"

I shook him off when he reached for me.

"Did you count how many times they called you that night?" I asked, my voice deathly quiet. "Did you even once wonder why?"

He didn’t answer. Because he knew. Every call he denied had cost me something. A bruise or a break or a new wound.

"I remember every single time they called you," I said. "Because every time you pressed 'decline,' they punished me. A kick to the leg. A slap. A knife against my skin. They got bored with just hurting me. And still—you didn’t answer."

I swallowed hard, feeling the anger start to bleed into something worse. Something hollow.

"You texted back once," I whispered. "Said you were busy taking care of Bianca’s stomach cramps. Said to stop calling. So they gave up. I was no use to them anymore. They dumped me there. Left me to die."

I stared at Rafe, really seeing him for the first time.

"And you know what, Rafe? They didn’t stab me at first. They said if you just answered the call—just once—they'd let me go. That’s all they wanted. A seat at your table."

My voice cracked, but I didn’t let it stop me.

"If you’d answered," I said, "my baby might still be alive."

The mighty, arrogant Rafe Moretti staggered backward, as if I’d physically hit him.

His entire body trembled. His face crumpled, suffocating under the weight of the truth he could no longer deny.