High society's blacklist came faster than I expected.

In just one day, I lost all my restoration orders and was forced to sell my gallery for pennies.

Walking down the street, former clients who used to greet me with warm smiles now dodged me like a plague, whispering behind my back.

"That's her. The crazy woman kicked out of the Costello family."

"So shameless. Spreading rumors about someone being a mistress when she was the one thrown out on the street."

I pulled my light trench coat tighter and picked up my pace, my face blank.

Just as I reached the corner near my old gallery, a gang of rival mob thugs ambushed me from an alley. Fired up by the dark web bounty and the rumors, they took all their rage out on me—the discarded "ex-wife."

"Beat this gang-war-starting bitch to death!" someone shouted.

The next second, a brick flew through the air and smashed into my shoulder. I stumbled backward. Before I could catch my balance, a heavy metal baseball bat slammed violently into my back.

Thud!

The agonizing pain made my vision go black. I hit the pavement hard. Broken glass pierced my palms; my knees were scraped raw and bloody. Surrounded by the thugs' crazy screaming and kicking, I could only curl into a tight ball, desperately shielding my stomach.

Suddenly, a familiar, tearing cramp struck deep in my lower belly.

A warm liquid gushed down my thighs, quickly soaking my light coat in red.

"The baby... my baby..."

Fear coiled around my heart like a venomous snake. I was breaking out in a cold sweat from the pain, my breathing shaky.

"Stop!"

Tires screeched as a dozen black, bulletproof Maybachs violently pulled up to the curb. Heavily armed guards stormed out and quickly scattered the thugs.

The car doors opened. Victor and Dominic, one on each side, carefully escorted Chloe—and her small baby bump—out of the car. It turned out they were in the area for Chloe’s checkup at a nearby high-end private clinic.

Seeing me lying on the ground covered in blood, Victor stopped dead in his tracks. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his pupils shrank. Instinctively, he started to step toward me.

"Victor..." Using every ounce of strength I had left, I reached my bloody hand out to him. My voice was a broken rasp. "Please... save the baby... our baby..."

My fingertips were trembling. It was the final plea for the child I had risked my life to conceive.

Just as Victor was about to take another step...

Chloe gripped his arm tightly. Her voice shook. "Victor, I'm so scared... Is she faking it again? She used to fake being sick all the time to keep Dominic..."

Dominic immediately chimed in. "Vivienne, have you no shame?! Faking a miscarriage? That is low, even for you!"

Victor stopped.

"Vivienne, drop the pathetic act. I told you, once Chloe has the baby, we’ll remarry. Stop throwing tantrums until then."

He turned his back, shielded Chloe, and walked toward the bulletproof Maybach without looking back once. Dominic sneered coldly and followed right behind them.

I watched their retreating backs in pure despair.

The pain robbed me of my senses. I could feel the tiny life I had sacrificed half my own to create slipping away from my body, drop by drop.

When I woke up, three days had passed.

The harsh smell of disinfectant filled the room. The doctor held my chart, looking at me with pity.

"Mrs. Costello, I'm so sorry. Because your body was already damaged from multiple rounds of IVF, combined with the heavy trauma and delayed treatment... we couldn't save the baby. And it will be nearly impossible for you to conceive again."

I lay in the pale hospital bed, listening quietly. No hysterical breakdowns. No wailing or crying.

When your heart completely shatters, it doesn't make a sound. Now I understood.

I pulled out my SIM card, flooded with thousands of death threats, and tossed it into the trash.

On the day I was discharged, I went back to the estate. I packed up everything I owned and shipped it away.

Sitting in the empty living room, I pulled out two waterproof courier bags.

In the first bag, I put the medical records of my miscarriage. Addressed to: Victor Costello.

In the second bag, I put a stack of yellowed black-market antibiotic receipts, a photo of the bloody shirt from when I took a knife for him, and the bank receipts.

On top of it all, I placed a newly written note with the exact same words I left for him fifteen years ago.

Addressed to: Dominic Russo.

The precious savior he worshipped half his life was nothing but a downright thief.

After mailing the packages, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the city that had trapped me for six years.

I am never coming back.