All Chapters of OWNED BY THE ENEMY: His Dark Claim: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Alessandro’s POV I arrived at the hospital believing—foolishly—that I could keep myself together. That I could walk Amara through the procedure without letting her see the weight sitting on my chest. That I could end this pregnancy quietly, cleanly, without her ever understanding the true danger surrounding us. But the moment I saw her sitting in the car with Damian, everything inside me cracked. She stepped out slowly when I knocked on the window—too slowly. Her eyes were downcast, her shoulders tight her steps counted like she was walking toward a sentence. This wasn’t the Amara who stood in our room demanding explanations. This wasn’t the woman who confronted me with fire in her voice and trembling bravely in her hands. This was the girl from the day they announced she was pregnant—the same haunted expression, the same fear she tried to swallow but couldn’t hide. Does she know? Did she somehow discover what I’m about to do? Or is she simply terrified because

Alessandro’s POV Two babies. Not one. For a second I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but when I looked at the doctor, he gave a slow, confirming nod. “It’s correct, Signore. The second was hidden at the last scan.” My breath caught. Two heartbeats. Two lives. The doctor continued, flipping through the chart. “Now that we know she’s carrying twins, termination carries greater risk. Her body isn’t strong enough for the procedure… but we still proceed, if that’s what you want.” “What do I want?” The words ripped out of me. I stepped forward. “You’re telling me you were willing to perform the termination even when you know she wasn’t strong enough—just because the baby was one instead of two?” The doctor blinked, startled by my tone. “You didn’t ask, Signore. You simply said to proceed, that it was your wish.” I stared at him, my pulse hammering. Rage—at him, at myself—coiled tight beneath my skin. I should have asked. Should have thought. Should have known.

Amara’s POV Alessandro didn’t come back last night. He told me he just needed to “do something” and would return soon, so I waited… and waited… until the waiting blurred into sleep. When I opened my eyes this morning, the space beside me was still cold and untouched, the sheets smooth, as if he had never been there at all. I tried not to think too much about it. I went through my morning routine—bath, skincare, makeup—anything to settle the discomfort in my chest. When I finally reached for the door to head downstairs for my usual coffee, the handle resisted under my hand. Stiff. Jammed. Wrong. I frowned, tightening my grip, trying again. Still stuck. An uneasy shiver crawled down my spine. The lock had never behaved like this before. I sat back on the edge of the bed and grabbed my phone to call Alessandro, but before the call could even ring, the door unlatched from the outside. Elena stepped in, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup of coffee. “Buongiorno

Amara’s POV I thought it would only last a day. A single day of being confined “for my safety,” a phrase Elena kept repeating like it was supposed to soothe me. But a day turned into a week, and a week into a month, and I am still locked inside this room—eating my meals on a tray like a prisoner, watched over by a bodyguard who barely speaks except to repeat Alessandro’s orders. Every attempt to leave has been useless. When I lied that I was feeling dizzy, hoping I’d at least be taken to a clinic, they sent the doctor into the room instead. When I begged to visit Nonna, they told me she wasn't receiving any guests and that her recovery depended on “strict isolation.” I didn't believe it, but I had no way to challenge it. I resented Elena at first. I wanted her to rebel with me, to slip me keys or look the other way. But she is only a servant obeying instructions from the man who signs her paycheck. Sometimes she sits near me and talks quietly, telling me what's happening do

Amara’s POV I woke up exhausted—not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that settles into the bones and refuses to leave. It's been over a month since Emma visited. Her words had held me together for maybe two weeks. After that…nothing worked anymore. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like Amara. This house is eating me alive—slow, quiet, deliberate. I haven't felt sunlight on my skin in so long. Alessandro still won't let me leave the room. Still won't tell me anything. And maybe—just maybe—he likes it this way. I sit up slowly, hand on my stomach, feeling a faint flutter beneath my palm. My baby. The only reason I'm still here, still breathing, still pretending there’s a future at all. But how long is this going to continue? How long will Alessandro keep dancing to Don Franecsco’s tune—obedient, silent, spinless? How long do I keep playing hide-and-seek with La Camorra, praying they don't remember I exist? Hope hurts. It betrays.