Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 110

The tension in the mansion is a physical weight. It sits on my chest, pressing down until my ribs ache.It has been three days since the partition. Three days since Aureliano locked himself in the East Wing and left us to rot in the luxury of the West.But we aren't rotting. We are suffocating.Ciro and Spadino are everywhere. They are a constant, hovering presence. If I stand up, Ciro is there to offer me a hand. If I sigh, Spadino is asking what's wrong. They are trying to fill the void Aureliano left with their own bodies, their own devotion.It is exhausting.I am sitting in the library. I am trying to read a book on Roman history, but the words swim on the page. My head is heavy. My stomach is a knot of cold iron.I haven't eaten properly in two days. The nausea is back, sharper than before. It strikes at random—morning, noon, midnight. I hide it. I swallow the bile. I smile and say I’m just not hungry.But my body is keeping score.Spadino enters the room. He is pacing. Click. C

The chair legs scream against the marble floor.Skreeee.It is a sound of violence. A sound of escape.I don't excuse myself again. I don't look at Aureliano. I don't look at Ciro, who is half out of his seat, his hand outstretched as if to catch me.I just run.I turn and sprint for the door. My heels slip on the polished stone, but I catch my balance on the doorframe and propel myself into the hallway.The air in the dining room was thick with the smell of roast lamb—grease, rosemary, blood. But the hallway isn't safe either. The scent follows me, a cloying, oily ghost that clings to the back of my throat.My stomach contracts. A violent, cramping spasm that doubles me over as I run.Not here. Not on the floor.If I vomit in the hallway, they will see. They will smell the sickness on me, and they will know it isn't just a stomach bug. They will smell the truth.I need a door. I need a lock.I scramble for the powder room under the stairs. It is the closest sanctuary.I slam into the

My nod is the detonator.I dip my chin, a single inch of movement, and the library explodes.It isn't a physical explosion. The walls don't crumble. The windows don't shatter. But the air in the room combusts, consuming all the oxygen in a flash of white-hot panic."When?" Aureliano roars.He lunges across the space between us. He grabs the arms of my chair, trapping me. His face is inches from mine, twisted into a mask of terrifying intensity."When did you know?" he demands. "The tests? The ones you hid in the vent?"I flinch. He found them. Of course he found them. He tore the apartment apart looking for reasons to hate me, and instead he found reasons to own me."Yes," I whisper."And you said nothing!"He shoves the chair. It skids backward on the rug. Scritch."You sat at my table," he shouts. "You slept in my bed. You let me plan a war, and you said nothing!""I was protecting it!" I scream back."From who?" Spadino yells.He is on his feet now. He is pacing, a frantic, caged a

The library door is locked. But this time, I didn't lock it.Aureliano stands in front of the exit. His back is to the wood. His arms are crossed.Ciro and Spadino are flanking me, a protective wall of muscle and worry, but even they look uneasy. They are caught between the brother who leads them and the woman who holds their hearts."A test," Aureliano says.His voice is flat. Dead. It is the voice he uses when he orders a shipment of guns."We need to know," he says. "Now.""I told you," Ciro rumbles. "It’s too early. The doctor said—""I don't care about the blood test," Aureliano snaps. "The blood test takes weeks. I want certainty."He looks at me. His eyes are cold, assessing. He is looking at my stomach like it is a bomb he needs to defuse."Amniocentesis," he says.The word hangs in the air. Clinical. Sharp. Needle-like.I instinctively wrap my arms around my belly."No," I whisper."It is a simple procedure," Aureliano says. "A needle. They extract the fluid. They map the DNA

The room is too quiet.Spadino’s soundproofing works too well. The acoustic foam on the walls swallows every noise, creating a dead, muffled silence that presses against my ears like cotton.I am pacing.Click. Click. Click.My boots on the hardwood floor are the only sound in the universe.I stop at the window. It is closed. Locked. The view is the same—guards, rain, grey sky.I turn around.I look at the tray of vitamins on the table. The horse pill. The red iron supplement. The glass of water, now lukewarm.I look at the pillows Spadino piled on the bed. A mountain of soft, suffocating velvet.I look at the door where the lock used to be.I can't breathe.It starts in my chest. A tightness. A heat. It spreads to my throat, choking me. It spreads to my hands, making my fingers twitch.It isn't fear. It isn't sadness.It is rage.Pure, molten, radioactive rage.I am tired of being handled. I am tired of being protected. I am tired of being a vessel, a prize, a problem, a patient.I a