Sophia’s Pov

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I was alive.

I felt nothing. And yet, I felt everything.

Pain pulsed beneath every inch of my skin—my abdomen throbbed like something had been ripped from it.

My head pounded against the tightness of fresh bandages, and my hand… God, my hand felt like it was still on the stove.

I turned my face slightly, blinking against the white light flooding the hospital room.

I recognized the dull scent of antiseptic, the steady beep of machines, the weight of grief settling into my bones before the words were even spoken.

The doctor was already there, standing by the window, clipboard in hand.

His expression was tight, unreadable at first—until his eyes met mine. And I saw it —Pity.

“Mrs. Moretti… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

I already knew.

The baby was gone.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t even flinch.

“Can I be discharged?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

He blinked, surprised. “You… just came out of a second trauma. You need time to heal. The burns on your hand still—”

“I said I want to leave.”

He hesitated and looked down at his clipboard. Then finally nodded.

By the time I walked out of that hospital, I was limping slightly, and every step sent another wave of fire through my ribs and legs.

But I didn’t stop. I hailed a cab and gave the address I had memorized on my phone.

The law office was quiet. The kind of place where people walked in broken and walked out free—or at least with a settlement.

I didn’t want money, I didn't want to just erase my identity, I wanted to cut all ties with him and that started from an official divorce.

“I want to file for a divorce,” I told the man behind the polished desk. “I need the documents to sign. Now.”

The lawyer looked at me with faint curiosity, like I was just another woman in a long line of desperate clients. He asked me my name. My husband’s.

I gave them to him.

He typed for a moment. Then frowned.

“Mrs. Moretti…” he began slowly. “According to the civil record… you and Mr. Lorenzo Moretti have been divorced. For two years.”

My heart stilled.

“That’s not possible.”

“It is because Mr. Lorenzo Moretti is currently married to Renata Giordano.”

He turned his screen. The scanned document stared back at me.

There was my signature. My full name and his details.

And the date? Two years ago.

Right around the time he had coaxed me into signing what he said were joint account papers. I had trusted him. I was still his wife. We were still… something.

He had lied to me. Deceived me. Kept me under his control like a prisoner with no idea I was free to run.

He had married Renata. And I… I had been nothing more than a shadow woman in my own life.

My breath hitched.

I stood up, but the floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My legs buckled slightly and the lawyer rushed to help me, but I waved him off.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I need… I need to leave.”

As I walked out, I was glad to finally be rid of him even though he had done it deceitfully.

—

The sun was already setting when I stepped out of the cab, my mind numb, my body screaming, and my soul hanging on by a single thread.

The mansion was quiet when I stepped in, but not for long.

I walked through the front doors with the divorce certificate in my hand, still warm from the printer. I didn’t hide it. I wanted him to know that I've found out about his deception.

Lorenzo was in the living room, glass of whiskey in hand.

He looked up.

“Where have you been?” he asked me.

“I know everything,” I said, lifting the paper. “You divorced me two years ago. You lied. You’ve tortured me under a marriage that didn’t exist.”

His face darkened.

“So you have the guts to go see a lawyer,” he said coldly. “That’s what today was about?”

“Don’t change the subject!” I snapped.

“You think you can leave me?” he said, standing now. “That’s why you went there? You actually think you’re free?”

I didn’t blink. “Why won’t you just let me go? I have the divorce papers, I can leave whenever I want.”

His voice was calm.

“You can't leave because I’m not done with you yet. You want to leave? It’ll be in a coffin.”

He turned, grabbed something off the couch—a black velvet dress. He threw it at me.

“Put that on. We’re attending the mafia gala tonight. And bring your bastard child. People will ask.”

I stared at him coldly.

“My daughter isn’t obligated to come. She’s not yours, remember?”

He stared at me with a shocked look on his face. I didn't wait for him to reply, I walked away.

In my bedroom, I shut the door and pulled out my phone. My hand still trembled from the pain. But my voice didn’t.

The line rang once before someone answered.

“It’s me,” I said quietly.

“Have you changed your mind?”

I looked in the mirror. I looked like a ghost of the woman I used to be.

“Yes, Grandpa. Make the arrangements.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, that's when I’ll disappear. I can't wait anymore.”

Sophia’s Pov

The air at the Moretti gala was thick with perfume, pride, and blood money.

Crystal chandeliers hung like swords above our heads.

Waiters moved like shadows, balancing trays of gold-rimmed champagne glasses.

The women were dressed in diamonds and silk. The men reeked of cologne and power.

And I stood among them—painted, bruised, and hollow.

The black velvet dress Lorenzo forced me into clung to my body like a second skin.

Every step reminded me of the burns under my sleeve, the pain in my abdomen, the bruises beneath the makeup.

Renata walked beside him, radiant and round with pregnancy, her hand resting proudly on his arm as though she’d earned the right to shine.

The whispers started as soon as we entered.

“Is that his wife?”

“Didn’t she betray him?”

“I thought she was dead.”

“No—Renata’s his wife now.”

I didn’t react. My silence was my armor.

Lorenzo’s grip on my waist was iron. His lips never stopped smiling, but his nails dug into my ribs with every step—just in case I forgot who was in control.

The ballroom was grand. Glass walls. A grand piano. A low hum of moneyed voices and political promises.

But what caught everyone’s attention was the screen set up on the stage. And the words etched in gold above it:

The Gallery of Shame.

I froze.

Lorenzo walked up to the stage like a showman, one arm around Renata, the other raising a glass.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Tonight, I present to you a very personal collection—something that represents the price of disobedience. Of betrayal.”

The screen flickered to life.

And then came the first photo.

A woman curled up on a tile floor, blood on her lips.

Next slide. A hand blistered on a stove burner.

Next, a naked back turned to the wall, head bowed, ropes around her wrists.

Then a blurry image of torn lace. Blood. A broken pearl necklace beside a tipped-over glass.

There was no face.

But I didn’t need to see one.

It was me.

Every wound. Every humiliation. Every private moment of torment turned into an exhibit.

“I call this my Gallery of Shame,” Lorenzo said, sipping casually. “A reminder that even the most delicate flowers can be crushed if they forget who planted them.”

The room laughed. Applauded. Mafia lords grinned as they raised their hands for the bidding.

“Five thousand.”

“Ten thousand.”

“Twenty, for the one with the blood.”

Each bid made my stomach twist. Each laugh was a dagger.

“You monsters,” I whispered.

No one heard me. No one cared.

Lorenzo looked directly at me as the screen flashed the last photo—one of a woman slumped over a bathtub, makeup smeared, her body limp.

The bidding continued as he came back and sat beside me.

“How could you?” I whispered quietly.

“If you don’t learn,” he said, his voice low, “the next auction will feature nudes. Real ones. You’re a whore, after all. Might as well make you useful.”

That broke me but I still didn’t cry. The moment I lost my daughter and her ashes, that was the moment I went numb.

The gala continued with toasts and fake laughter. Renata soaked in the attention like the queen she believed she was.

I stood in the corner, a statue wrapped in velvet, shaking with fury beneath my skin.

And then…

The world exploded.

At first it was distant—a pop, then a crack. Then screaming. A gunshot.

And then chaos.

A grenade tore through the west wall, sending shards of glass raining down like knives. The chandeliers swung.

A second explosion ripped through the floor near the bar, sending bottles flying and people ducking for cover.

Mafia men scrambled for their weapons. Guests screamed, heels snapping as they ran. The floor cracked beneath us as a support beam fell from the ceiling.

I tried to move. I tried to run.

But a third blast sent me flying across the room.

Everything spun. My ears rang. My leg burned from where a piece of glass had torn into my thigh. I crawled toward the stairs, coughing, choking on the thick, black smoke.

“Help!” Renata’s voice cried out through the smoke. “Lorenzo!”

I saw her crouched behind a marble column, her dress torn, makeup streaked, but untouched. She was calling for him. Wailing like she was the only soul worth saving.

And he came.

Of course he came.

He ran to her, knelt beside her, shielded her with his body.

“Lorenzo!” I screamed, dragging myself toward him. “Help me! Please—don’t leave me here!”

His eyes found mine.

But there was no recognition. No mercy.

“You’re not pregnant,” he said flatly. “She is. Find your way out.”

He turned away and that was it.

Another grenade exploded near the entrance, blasting through the hallway.

The ceiling cracked. A chandelier came down like a guillotine, shattering near my feet. I screamed as rubble slammed into my back, pinning me.

Smoke poured in like a tidal wave. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.

My lungs burned. My vision blurred. My ears rang so loud I thought I was already dead.

I coughed. Crawled. Blood smeared behind me like a trail.

Please… please don’t let me die here, I whispered a silent prayer.

And then—

Through the smoke, I saw a figure. Tall and broad as he moved through the chaos with skillful precision.

He knelt beside me and lifted me carefully.

His face was blurred by the smoke, the backlight of flames turning his silhouette into something almost angelic.

“It’s over now,” he said, his voice sounding vaguely familiar, “I’ve got you.”

I tried to speak. Tried to push him away. He’s probably one of the attackers and wanted to kidnap me.

“Don’t… touch me…” I whispered.

“Your grandfather sent me. They’ve been waiting for you. And they’ve promised to bring hell to anyone who’s ever laid a finger on you.”