The Calculated Love Was Gone

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through a gap in the velvet curtains.

I struggled to force my eyelids open. My throat was on fire and my stomach twisted. A wave of churning nausea washed over me again.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and dry heaved, but nothing came up except sour bile.

A low fever had started last night. I'd thought it was just a cold, my mind felt thick and clouded.

"Maria, water." My voice came out as a terrifying rasp.

The maid at my bedside quickly brought a glass of cool water, condensation clinging to its sides.

I gulped it down, the cool liquid slightly dousing the fire in my throat.

The room fell silent again, the only sound my ragged breathing.

I turned my head to look at the nightstand.

In the silver frame, the late Don Costello sat in his throne-like leather chair, a large hand resting lovingly on my head.

He was the one who saved me from the orphanage and gave me a home.

"Is Lorenzo back?" I asked, clutching the empty glass so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Even though reason told me it was impossible, a foolish flicker of hope ignited in my heart.

Maria avoided my gaze, her eyes fixed on the pattern of the carpet as she gently shook her head.

"The Don is still busy."

Of course.

That flicker of hope was snuffed out, leaving not even ashes behind.

Today was our second wedding anniversary, and my so-called husband was still nowhere to be found.

"The Don has his reasons, Donna," Maria said, her voice full of pity. "Alberto said he has to host the charity gala. It's a very important event."

The corner of my mouth twitched into a cold smile.

I had heard far too many excuses over the past two years. Important meetings, territory disputes, power transitions...

At first, I tried to remember each reason. Later, I just grew numb.

As long as it was "for the family," I had to smile and pretend to understand.

The door opened, and an elegant, middle-aged woman walked in.

It was Lorenzo's stepmother, the family's Madre, Lily. She carried a white porcelain teacup, her eyes filled with concern as she looked at me.

"Seraphina, you look so pale."

I managed to sit up. "Madre, I'm fine. Just tired, and my stomach is upset. I think I might be coming down with something."

"Pull yourself together. You must attend the gala tonight. The media is watching Lorenzo's marriage."

"Madre, I don't feel well..."

I instinctively wanted to refuse, my hand drifting to my flat stomach.

A new life was growing inside me.

It was the surprise I had planned to give him tonight.

"Unless you are on your deathbed, you will go." Lily's voice turned hard, her tone laced with the authority of a Mafia widow.

"The women of the Marino family do not show weakness in public. The makeup artist is waiting outside."

I closed my eyes. She was right.

In this family, I didn't even have the right to be sick.

In the ballroom of the family-owned hotel, the crystal chandeliers were blindingly brilliant.

I stood on the second-floor balcony, clinging to Lily's arm like a doll.

In the center of the crowd below, Lorenzo lounged on a sofa, dressed in an impeccably tailored black couture suit.

The power radiating from him was so palpable it was hard to breathe.

My husband had a face that could make any woman in the city swoon, and a heart colder than Siberian permafrost.

As if sensing something, he looked up at me.

My body stiffened, and I instinctively tried to avoid his gaze.

Just then, a reporter who didn't know any better rushed to the front, microphone in hand.

"Don Marino! Rumor has it your marriage was solely to secure the old Don's inheritance. In two years of marriage, you've almost never appeared in public with the Donna. Tell me, are you happily married?"

The question was not on the approved list. The atmosphere froze, and even the band missed a beat.

Lily's hand tightened on the railing, and she looked at me with worry.

I stood on high, looking down at the man who was the center of everyone's universe.

His calm eyes darkened, and a subtle smile played on his lips.

"A marriage full of calculated scheme from the very start," his voice came through the speakers, low and clear. "Does that sound like love to you?"

He swirled the wine in his glass, uttering the words with casual indifference.

The words "calculated scheme" were a poison-tipped dagger that pierced my heart.