I spent five million dollars to have a disfigured male model surgically transformed into the spitting image of my ex-husband, Dante Moretti. I made him as my toyboy.

I thought Dante wouldn't care.

After all, in our seven years of marriage, I had once collapsed from sheer exhaustion and was hospitalized. He was in Seattle at the time, finalizing an arms deal.

On the day my mother passed away, he was at a victory banquet, basking in the praise of other Dons.

When a rival family’s attack landed me in the ICU, with doctors warning I might not make it, he merely had his underboss deliver a black card with a message: anything short of death was acceptable.

As the formidable Don of the New York Mafia, he was notoriously cold and ruthless.

Just as I was convincing myself to be a good, understanding wife, a piece of news sent shockwaves through the entire underworld.

The power-obsessed Dante, who saw women as disposable, had skipped an important family meeting to go on a vacation to Monaco with a club waitress named Isabella Rossi.

So I ran away. I left his world for good.

Just as I was losing myself in the counterfeit comfort of Dante's stand-in, the door to my apartment was kicked off its hinges.

Dante emerged from the shadows, a menacing silhouette in a bespoke suit, and strode toward me.

With bloodshot eyes, he yanked me out of the other man's arms.

"Elara, do you have a death wish?"

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1

"Is this your new toy?"

Dante glared at the face identical to his own. To the man, he hissed, "This face belongs to Isabella. Not for you to wear."

Then he drew a stiletto and carved several deep, bone-exposing gashes into the terrified man's face.

"You've really outdone yourself, Elara," he sneered at me.

"She's a brilliant surgeon, Dante," Isabella whispered behind him. "The best in New York. Her hands… that's her gift."

Dante turned to look at me, a viciousness I had never seen before flashing in his eyes.

"What do you think you're doing…"

Before I could finish, I felt a sharp, agonizing pain.

He drove the blade right through my palm.

"This should ensure you won't pull a stunt like this again," he said coldly.

Without a backward glance, he left with his arm around Isabella.

I looked down at the blood streaming down my wrist.

This was my hand. My pride. My everything.

Now, it had been ruined by Dante's own.

Stumbling through the ER doors, I murmured weakly, "Debridement, hemostasis, bandaging."

I was intimately familiar with every step, but I never imagined I would one day experience it myself.

As I walked out of the examination room, my blood ran cold. I saw Dante carefully helping Isabella out of the OB/GYN department.

Seven years ago, on our wedding night, I had asked him, "Dante, when are we going to have a child?"

Without looking up from his documents, he had said, "I don't like children."

It turned out he didn't dislike children; he just disliked the idea of having them with me.

Seeing my gaze fall upon her, Isabella weakly tugged on Dante's sleeve, tears welling in her eyes.

"Dante… Elara frightened me. My stomach is cramping."

"Elara."

He looked at me, his eyes icy. "Kneel and apologize to Isabella."

I was stunned.

"Didn't you hear me?"

His voice grew even colder. "Kneel and apologize for what you've done."

His roar echoed through the hospital lobby, drawing countless onlookers.

As their gazes—a mix of pity and curiosity—fell upon me, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.

Fine, I'll kneel.

I slowly knelt, my injured hand hanging at my side, the gauze bandage already seeping with blood.

"I'm sorry," I said mechanically.

Isabella came over, feigning concern. "Oh, Elara, you shouldn't be kneeling," she cooed, pretending to help me up while secretly grinding the needle-sharp point of her stiletto heel into my wounded palm.

"Oh, Elara, you mustn't. Get up, quickly now."

"Enough!"

I shoved her away, protecting my hand.

Isabella stumbled backward and collapsed, a dark stain of blood spreading rapidly from beneath her skirt.

"Isabella!"

Dante rushed over, scooping Isabella up with trembling hands and running toward the emergency room.

His voice was hoarse, filled with a panic I had never heard before. "Doctor! Someone, help!"

From beginning to end, he didn't even spare me a single glance.

The first time I miscarried, I called him over thirty times. He didn't answer once.

The second time I miscarried, I signed the surgical consent form alone at the hospital. When the nurse asked where my family was, I said he was busy.

The third time, the fourth, the fifth…

Every single time, I was alone.

It wasn't that he was heartless; he was just heartless toward me.

I stood up, my legs a bit weak.

My bandaged hand was still seeping blood, and the dull ache was getting worse.

My career as a surgeon might be over.

I turned and left, unnoticed by anyone.

It was late at night when I returned to the estate.

I opened a drawer in the study and took out the divorce agreement I had kept ready for seven years. Now, it was finally time.

Marrying him out of a foolish, youthful infatuation had been a mistake from the very beginning.

My phone suddenly rang.

I glanced at the caller ID. It was Dante.

"Get to the hospital now."

His voice was glacial, and he hung up before I could utter a word.

I clutched the phone, hesitating for a few seconds before grabbing the divorce agreement and heading out.

Perfect timing. I'll have him sign it.

The hospital corridor was brightly lit. When Dante saw me, his gaze was arctic. "The baby is gone. She's hemorrhaging and needs a blood transfusion now."

"You caused this, Elara. Are you satisfied?"

"I didn't—"

"You pushed her!" he cut me off, his voice low but filled with suppressed rage. "Everyone saw it."

"Now, go give blood."

I bit my lip. "I can, but you have to sign something first."

I took the divorce agreement out of my bag and handed it to him.

Dante took the document, flipping to the last page without even looking at it, and picked up a pen.

"Another territory transfer for your father?" he sneered. "Is that what this is?"

I didn't explain.

He assumed it was another document concerning territory, just like the countless others I had brought him over the past seven years.

Every time my father's branch of the family ran into trouble, I was the one sent to beg him.

He would always help, but never because of me. It was because I was his wife, and he had to protect the Moretti name.

He was also convinced I had only married him to fulfill our families' alliance, with no real feelings involved.

But he didn't know that back in college, he'd once handed me a piece of candy when my blood sugar dropped, and in that small moment, he became my entire world.

He signed his name with a flourish and tossed the document back to me. "Satisfied? Now go give blood."

I caught the document and carefully put it away in my bag.

The moment the needle pierced my vein, I closed my eyes.

Bright red blood flowed through the transparent tube, one bag, then two…

My head grew dizzier, and a buzzing sound filled my ears.

The nurse's voice grew more and more distant.

Then, everything went black, and I lost consciousness.

When I woke from my coma, a week had passed.

The glaring fluorescent lights made me instinctively shut my eyes.

"Dr. Vance, do you have any idea what you've done?"

"You're pregnant! And you gave that much blood. Do you have a death wish?"

My colleague's words struck me like a fist to the gut.

I stared at him, unable to process it for a moment.

My colleague sighed, "You've had too many miscarriages over the years. Your uterine wall is already paper-thin."

"If you don't keep this one, you might never be able to conceive again."

Never be able to conceive again.

The words were a dull blade, sawing at my heart.

I looked down at my flat stomach, where a tiny life was growing—my and Dante's child.

But he wouldn't care.

I lay in the hospital bed, tears silently streaming down my face.

This child had come at the worst possible time.

My phone rang. It was Dante.

"We're out of supplies," he said flatly. "Go buy some."

I paused for a moment, not understanding.

"Condoms," he added impatiently. "You've always been the one to get them. Now we're out."

A vise clamped around my heart.

"I don't want to go," I said, biting my lip.

Dante sneered. "Have you forgotten the agreement you just signed?"

"Your father's pathetic territory is now entirely dependent on my protection to survive."

"If I break the contract, your entire family will be kicked out of New York by tomorrow."

My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms.

He always knew exactly which strings to pull.

"I understand." Ignoring my colleague's advice, I left the hospital.

When I returned to the Moretti estate, the unmistakable sounds of their lovemaking drifted from upstairs.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar. Isabella's hair was disheveled, her face still flushed.

Dante was leaning against the headboard, looking at me with a lazy gaze.

"Did you get them?"

I placed the bag on the table by the door and was about to leave when a wave of nausea hit me.

My stomach churned, and I rushed to the bathroom, retching violently.

A malicious glint flashed in Isabella's eyes. She said to Dante in a wounded tone, "Don't tell me Elara is throwing up because she finds us disgusting!"

"She wouldn't dare. Kneel," Dante said coldly.

Too weary to fight, I slowly knelt by the bed, my head bowed, unable to meet their gaze.

Dante's voice came from above. "Just kneel here and watch us."

What followed was a grotesque performance of moans and rustling sheets.

I knelt by the bed, listening to their entanglement.

Every gasp and rustle was a fresh turn of a knife in my gut.

I don't know how much time passed before it finally fell silent.

"Elara, get the tissues and clean us up."

I stood up, my legs so numb that I almost fell.

When I brought the tissues over and saw the tangled sheets and used condoms, another wave of nausea washed over me.

"Hurry up, Isabella is waiting."

I mechanically handed over the tissues, then cleaned up the used items.

Every action felt like I was being slowly flayed alive.

"Alright, you can get lost now."

Dante waved his hand, as if shooing away an annoying fly.

I turned and left. The moment the door closed, the tears finally fell.

In that instant, something inside me finally shattered.

Seven years of marriage, seven years of waiting, seven years of humbling myself to please him—all of it had been a joke.

Dante Moretti, from this day forward, there is nothing between us but hate.