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.