When A Quiet Woman Snaps
The Moretti Family's Thanksgiving party was in full swing downstairs—crystal clinks, fake laughs, classic mafia gloss.
Meanwhile, I was curled up in a servant's room on the third floor. Jackson Moretti's wife. Legally, anyway.
My hands were ice. I gripped the ultrasound report like it could anchor me. Three heartbeats. Strong, steady.
It was supposed to be a surprise—his big Thanksgiving gift.
To the outside world, Jackson was a polished Stanford grad, running a top-tier consulting firm in San Francisco. But behind the scenes? He ran the Moretti empire—cold, calculated, pulling strings in the West Coast's darkest corners.
Three years of marriage and we barely spoke, but I still clung to the hope that maybe... maybe there was something real left.
Then I heard him downstairs.
"You really not letting your wife come down?"
"Isabella?" He laughed. "She'd kill the vibe."
Another voice chimed in. "Lina's back, right? Wild you married her twin. Which one do you actually like?"
Jackson didn't miss a beat. "Isabella's just a stand-in. Quiet. Predictable. I could tell her to drop dead and she'd say 'okay.'"
"So when are you ditching her?"
"Dunno. She thinks she matters. I'm just playing her."
I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the sob.
A minute later, I was heading downstairs, numb. I brushed my fingers over my belly.
"Sorry, babies," I whispered.
Triplets. His.
He thought I was blind. Weak. Stuck.
What he didn't know? A quiet woman, once she snaps—she can burn it all down.