Chapter 4

Before I decided to leave, my surgeon's instincts picked up on something wrong with Bianca's baby.

The infant's breathing was abnormally shallow, and his lips had a faint bluish tint: classic signs of a severe congenital heart defect.

No matter what Luca had done, I couldn't just watch an innocent child suffer. I used my connections to bring a renowned pediatric cardiologist to the estate for a quick checkup.

But when I brought the doctor to the nursery, Bianca went completely mad.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed, snatching the baby away and clutching him tightly. "My son is perfectly healthy! He is the heir to the Lupo family! You're just jealous I gave birth to a son while you're barren, so you're trying to curse him!"

She burst into theatrical tears, her wails echoing through the halls.

Luca rushed in, his face dark with fury. Without asking a single question, he wrapped his arms around Bianca to comfort her, his blatant favoritism breaking my heart all over again.

"Stella, this is a new low," he spat, "Cursing a newborn just because you can't have one? Get out!"

Looking at his protective stance, I felt a sense of absurdity. All my lingering hopes vanished.

"Fine," I said coldly. "If you don't want him checked, then forget it."

The grand baptism ceremony arrived as scheduled.

The family's largest banquet hall was transformed into a palace of white roses and crystal chandeliers.

At the main entrance, a massive, gilt-framed oil painting of Luca and Bianca holding the infant was prominently displayed.

The heads of all the major allied families were in attendance.

Everyone was whispering, placing bets on whether the spurned doctor-wife would show up to cause a scene.

At the far end of the hall, Luca stood on the hallowed baptismal stage, dressed in a black bespoke suit, an air of arrogance about him.

As the priest began to recite the scripture, Luca's eyes kept darting toward the heavy, carved wooden doors of the hall.

He was waiting for me. Perhaps he was waiting to see me lose control with jealousy, or to see me pathetically beg him not to abandon me.

"The holy water is prepared. The father will now sign the succession papers!" the priest announced loudly.

Bianca, radiant and holding the infant, clung to Luca's side, eagerly waiting for him to put pen to paper and officially sign the vast Lupo empire over to her son.

Just as Luca picked up the fountain pen, the tip hovering over the document, the doors of the banquet hall were thrown open.

"Wait!"

The hall erupted in an uproar. Everyone turned excitedly, thinking they were about to witness the dramatic confrontation of the original wife.

But the person who strode in was not me. It was a courier in a black jacket.

"Whew… glad I made it," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. Under the gaze of hundreds, he walked straight to the stage.

"Which of you is Mr. Luca? I have an express delivery from a Ms. Stella. She gave specific instructions that it must be delivered to you before you sign."

Luca's tense jaw relaxed slightly. He stared at the black box with its combination lock and let out a knowing, cold smirk.

"I knew she'd break. What is it? A groveling apology? Or more useless trinkets she begged some god for in a forgotten corner of the world?"

Bianca giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh my, Stella is just too kind. She couldn't make it, but she still sent a gift. How thoughtful."

The courier looked at the two of them, his face impassive, and pushed the box directly into Luca's hands.

"I don't know what it is, but the sender said it was the most fitting gift for the two of you."

With the air of a victor, Luca raised an eyebrow and, in front of all the city's bosses, clicked open the lock.

"At least she knows her place." The words died in his throat.

The lid sprang open. On top lay a signed divorce agreement, one that waived all rights to a division of property.

In the moment he froze, a thin slip of paper floated out of the box, landing gently on the hem of Bianca's expensive gown.

Luca went completely rigid. He bent down slowly, like a puppet with its strings cut, and picked up the paper.

The next second, his pupils shrank to pinpricks. He staggered backward, nearly knocking over the champagne tower behind him.

It was an ultrasound report.

Printed on it, clear as day, were the words:

"Patient: Stella; Gestational Age: 4 Weeks; Fetal Status: Twins, viable."