So that's how it happened.

Compared to her story, my memory of that day was starkly different.

I was on a cold operating table, bleeding out after shielding our son from a car bomb, fighting with every ounce of strength just to stay alive for him.

Knowing that I had unknowingly witnessed the moment they met, should I feel my heart tear in two, or should I be grateful?

A dull ache throbbed in my chest. I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to maintain a mask of detached professionalism.

"Miss Doyle, do you have any other requirements for the ceremony?"

Cassie tilted her head, thinking for a moment. Then she said, "Oh, right. The entire hall must be decorated with imported bulletproof silk. My gown is a one-of-a-kind design, custom-made for me by Jarren, and it can't be damaged at all. Money is no object; Jarren will handle everything."

Hearing this, I almost laughed out loud.

Jarren. The man I had personally raised from a low-level Soldato. The enforcer who once couldn't afford a decent gun was now the family's unassailable Underboss. A position that took other men twenty years to climb, I helped him secure in just three.

Perhaps I had paved his path too smoothly, letting him forget where he came from—and who put him there.

As for that gown, it was from a luxury brand that required an asset check just to place an order.

At the show in Milan, the admiration in Jarren's eyes had been so obvious. In that moment, I was sure that bulletproof gown would be mine.

Then I received the confirmation letter from the brand, informing me the order had gone into production.

It was just two sizes too small.

I had assumed he’d simply misjudged my postpartum figure.

Now I finally understood. That gown I could never fit into was never meant for me.

I closed the folder. "I understand, Miss Doyle. I promise you a ceremony that money can't buy."

After seeing her out with a practiced smile, I sneered and called my father's most loyal strategist, my Consigliere, Marco Bellini.

"Jarren has betrayed the family," I said calmly. "I want everything he has, and I want him to disappear from this world."

...

In less than half an hour, encrypted evidence of Jarren's betrayal landed in my inbox.

It was only a few months' worth of data, but it was nearly 100GB.

The first video was from the day I was almost killed by the bomb. Cassie hadn't told the whole story.

While I was fighting for my life on the operating table, Jarren had taken her to the "safe house" we had prepared for our son for a tryst.

He had only rushed back, disheveled, after I was out of surgery, feeding me a lie about hunting down a family traitor.

The second video was from our son Luca's one-month celebration.

An enemy family had infiltrated and poisoned the wine. Luca was rushed to the hospital.

I was standing in the hallway, trembling, while Jarren slipped into another consultation room to murmur to Cassie, who was on the night shift.

The third video was from the time he claimed he was going for "peace talks" during my postpartum recovery.

The excuse was laughably thin.

The Caruso family business was mine; how could I not know about any peace talks?

But seeing him startled awake by our son's cries every night, his face etched with exhaustion, my heart had ached for him. So I let him go out to "relax."

I never imagined my consideration was just enabling an affair. An uninterrupted romantic getaway on my private island. How thoughtful of him.

With a trembling hand, I held my phone and clicked on the longest video.

The video started with the faint cry of a baby filling the room. I recognized it instantly. It was my son, Luca.

My fingers trembled as I fast-forwarded.

Cassie's cloying voice came through, "Are you sure about this? Using your own son to… test my nerve? Is that really okay?"

Jarren replied nonchalantly, almost with a laugh, "What's the problem? People always say you're afraid of blood. Practicing on a corpse isn't as effective as a live subject. If he can’t learn the smell of steel now, he doesn't deserve to be my son."

In the past, I had always thought Jarren was a good father. From his initial clumsiness to his later proficiency in checking our son's surroundings for threats.

Especially after he started his frequent "outings," he seemed to handle Luca with newfound care and experience.

That was why I felt at ease letting him take our son out alone.

I never thought he could be so cruel to his own flesh and blood.

In the video, Jarren stuffed a loaded silver pistol into my two-month-old son's hand, forcing his tiny fingers around the grip, and even laughed. "You have to get used to the smell of steel from a young age." And Cassie was excitedly taking pictures from the side.

My son's cries grew louder, and a pain so sharp it stole my breath shot through me. I wanted to smash through the screen and wring the necks of that wretched pair with my own hands.

Then, in the next second, my phone rang.

I answered, and Cassie's shy, sweet voice came through the receiver, "Calvert, the baptism might have to be moved up. Jarren's mother specially chose a date for us. We'll hold it in three days. The timing is perfect; it will bring us good luck and bless us with a boy."

Almost simultaneously, Jarren sent me a message.

"My Queen, the peace talks have been moved up. I might have to leave as early as tomorrow. You and Luca be good at home and wait for my triumphant return."

I looked at the wallpaper on my phone—a picture of my son sleeping peacefully, his face soft and innocent—and I suddenly smiled.

Since my husband and his mistress were holding their ceremony, how could I, the legitimate wife and Donna of the family, possibly be absent?

...

I flew to the estate on Lake Geneva ahead of Jarren.

The moment I landed and turned on my phone, his message popped up. "My Queen, how are you and our son?"

I expressionlessly sent a photo of me and Luca back to him.

He replied almost instantly, "My heir looks so strong. You too, My Queen. I don't even want to go to the peace talks anymore. I just want to come home and be with you and our son."

I stared at those lines, a cold, icy sneer forming on my lips.

That photo was from last month. I wasn't this thin then. And my son was much smaller.

Jarren had taken the picture himself, yet he didn't notice a thing.

...

On the day of the ceremony, I stood on the second-floor gallery, watching from my position as Donna of the estate.

Almost all of Jarren's relatives and friends were present. His mother, Genevieve, bustled through the crowd, her face beaming with joy, attending to every detail with care—the picture of a flawless, doting grandmother-to-be.