The Day Scarlett Moretti Died
The night before my wedding, I found out I was pregnant.
That same night, I found out my fiancé had already chosen another woman to give him his first child.
Adrian DeLuca, heir to a mafia empire and the man who once swore I was the only woman he would ever love, came home carrying her perfume on his clothes and told me, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, that it was only a medical arrangement. His dead friend’s widow needed an heir, and after I had failed to give him one through sixty-six rounds of IVF, he had decided this was the best solution for everyone.
I said nothing.
I let him go on preparing the wedding. I let him believe I would still walk down the aisle and become Mrs. DeLuca.
But while he was planning our ceremony, I was planning my disappearance.
On our wedding day, the estate would still open its doors. The guests would still arrive. The ceremony would still begin.
But the bride Adrian DeLuca betrayed would die there.
By the time he learned the truth, that I had been carrying his child all along, I would already be gone under a new name, taking his heir somewhere he could never reach.