"I'm moving to the villa by Lake Michigan."

I made the announcement at the breakfast table.

Marco paused, his silver knife hovering. His brow furrowed—the first sign of the Don’s displeasure.

"Why? The estate has unparalleled security and the finest doctors."

"I feel unsettled," I said, allowing a trace of vulnerability to soften my eyes. "It's too noisy here. Bianca's piano, the endless parties… I’m worried it isn't good for the child."

The word "child" changed everything.

It was the keystone of his plan—the scapegoat.

"Alright," he said, his tone softening. He even placed his hand over mine in a hollow gesture of intimacy. "You are my wife, my Donna. You need absolute quiet. I'll have men escort you."

He was lying.

I saw the relief flicker in his eyes.

Sending me away meant he and Bianca could be together without interruption. He wouldn't have to worry about me hearing her moans from the adjacent room.

I moved into the lakeside villa.

It was remote, nestled in a dense forest. A perfect hideout. A perfect training ground.

My excuse was a pregnancy-induced sensitivity to smell. The truth was far simpler: I had to mask the scent of gunpowder and sweat clinging to me—the perfume of an assassin.

The next few months were an absurd one-woman show.

Marco visited every two weeks, playing the part of the "devoted husband."

But his gifts betrayed him.

For me, he brought cheap vitamins from a corner drugstore.

But according to the family’s financial records—provided by the loyal accountant my father had left me—he had embezzled a fortune from the family treasury to smuggle a rare, forbidden drug from Europe for Bianca.

It was the kind of drug that could pull a person back from the brink of death.

Its destination? Bianca's luxury apartment.

It was clear the half-breed was draining the life from her. Bianca was on the verge of death.

Staring at the expense ledger, I remembered my past life. I had been dying from a hemorrhage, begging him for a single dose of that same drug.

What had he said?

"That is a strategic family asset. It cannot be wasted on a woman who might bear an heir of impure blood."

And now, he was pouring it into the woman carrying a monster.

I let out a contemptuous laugh and fired my last round.

Sweat dripped from my chin.

My muscles coiled, power surging through me.

I was once the family's most lethal sharpshooter and strategist.

For Marco, I had clipped my own wings, content to be his caged bird.

Now, the woman I used to be was wide awake.

"Donna, you look radiant lately," said Dr. Isabella, the family’s private physician, during a check-up.

She was an experienced, trustworthy woman with a sharp, discerning gaze.

"Thank you," I replied coolly.

Dr. Isabella hesitated, then lowered her voice. "I saw the Don taking Bianca to a private sanatorium again yesterday. There are whispers among the family… They're saying Bianca is the one carrying the true heir, and you…"

She trailed off, her eyes filled with sympathy.

"Donna, your mother was my patron. She did more for me than I can say. I trust my own eyes, not whispers. If you ever need anything, I am loyal to you."

She thought I was the poor, ignorant wife.

I rose from the yoga mat and draped a loose robe over myself, hiding my firm abs.

"Let them talk, Isabella," I said, picking up a teacup. "Marco is the Don. He knows what he’s doing. As long as my child is born safely, I am at peace."

Dr. Isabella looked like she wanted to say more, but she held her tongue.

If she knew what I was really thinking, she might have a heart attack.

I couldn't care less about Marco and Bianca.

In fact, his obsession with her was my greatest advantage. It left him no time to scrutinize me with that predator’s intuition of his.

Otherwise, even with the silicone belly and the perfume, he might have discovered that the "child" in my womb was nothing but a phantom.

Six months flew by.

As my "due date" loomed, Bianca was clearly growing more desperate.

That night, the villa door was kicked open.

Marco burst in, soaked from the rain, his face a mask of sick, frenzied obsession.

He was in a hurry.

My informant had confirmed it: Bianca's water broke half an hour ago. Her unholy spawn was tearing its way out of her, the agony threatening to kill her.

Marco needed my "child" to switch with hers. Now.

"Aurelia!" Marco strode into the bedroom, a syringe in his hand.

The liquid inside was cloudy, reeking of chemicals.

"Darling, I know you haven't been feeling well," he said, his voice trembling—not with concern, but with nerves. "Inject this," he urged. "It will ensure our heir is born with the greatest possible strength."

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him.

My sense of smell was sharper than a hunting dog's.

That was no nutrient shot.

It was a high dose of oxytocin.

It would induce violent contractions and leave a new mother weak and powerless—a puppet in his hands.

In my past life, I had taken this injection. I passed out on the delivery bed, allowing him to switch my child.

"This is for the good of the child, right?" I asked, taking the syringe and running a finger along its cold barrel.

Marco swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the syringe. "Yes. For our heir. Inject it. Now. Be good."

He was terrified. If I didn't "give birth" tonight, the family would execute his precious Bianca for bearing a bastard.

I aimed the needle at my arm.

The acrid smell of the drug filled my nostrils.

In that moment, I saw the cruelty and anticipation glittering in his eyes.

"Marco," I asked, my voice dangerously low, "are you sure this is for 'our' heir?"

Marco’s pupils constricted. The hand holding the syringe gave an almost imperceptible tremble.

He masked it instantly, his fear morphing into the classic, offended rage of a cornered Don.

"Aurelia, what is that look?" he roared, using his authority to cover his guilt. "I am your husband! The Don of this family! Would I harm you? Would I harm my own heir?"

I could smell the sour stench of his desperation.

Husband?

A bitter laugh died in my throat.

In my last life, this so-called "husband" was the one who ordered me burned alive.

It was never my enemies who hurt me the most. It was always you, Marco.

But I didn't call his bluff.

I knew this drug wouldn't cause permanent harm to a healthy adult.

It would only induce severe muscle spasms.

The perfect prop for my performance.

"Of course not," I said softly. "I'm just nervous."

I raised my arm and pushed the cold liquid into my vein.

Marco let out a quiet sigh of relief, a flash of savage satisfaction in his eyes.

The drug worked faster than I expected.

Five minutes later, a violent cramp seized my abdomen. The pain was real. Cold sweat drenched my silk nightgown.

I collapsed onto the sofa, letting out a pained groan. "Ah… it hurts…"

Just then, Marco’s phone rang. His face went chalk-white.

He answered, listened for a few seconds.

"Damn it! Bianca's in labor too!"

He roared in a panic, completely forgetting me as I writhed in "agony" beside him, and scrambled for his car keys.

The rain was coming down in sheets.

Marco’s car tore away from the villa like a bat out of hell, racing toward Bianca.

She was sprawled on the back seat, drenched, her screams nearly shattering the bulletproof windows.

"Marco! Save me! Something is ripping me apart!" she clawed at his arm. "It hurts! Our baby… we're going to die!"

"It's alright, Bianca, stay with me!" Marco yelled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he glanced back at her, his expression frantic. "I'm here! I swear on my life I'll save you and our child!"

And me?

I was curled up in the passenger seat, my face a mask of pale pain. Marco didn’t spare me a single glance.

I was just a piece of luggage he’d tossed aside.

The car screeched to a halt before the family-owned private hospital.

Medical staff were already waiting.

"Quick! Save Bianca first! She's critical!" Marco roared, shoving aside a nurse who moved to help me. He swept Bianca into his arms and charged toward the emergency entrance.

As she whimpered in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, Bianca’s eyes met mine. A victorious, venomous smirk twisted her lips.

I was left alone in the downpour, the rain mixing with the cold sweat on my face.

A few minutes later, two intern nurses rushed out with a wheelchair. "Donna, hang in there!"

I was wheeled into a delivery room.

The cold steel door slammed shut. My performance was over.

Standing before the operating table was my doctor—Dr. Isabella.

She had already dismissed everyone else, keeping only her two most trusted nurses.

Our eyes met.

Dr. Isabella glanced at my flat stomach, her expression a mix of awe and terror.

She gave a silent, solemn nod.

Everything was in place.

The minutes ticked by.

The thunder outside masked all the dirty deeds happening within.

Hours later, in the dead of night.

My hospital room was silent, save for the steady beep of the heart monitor.

I lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing evenly, feigning the deep exhaustion of a woman who had just survived a hemorrhage.

But every muscle in my body was coiled, every sense on high alert.

The lock clicked. Someone tiptoed in.

A faint, cloying scent hit my nostrils—a perfume I associated only with the Russians.

The footsteps were light, hesitant, reeking of guilt as they approached my bed.

It was Marco.

He was holding a tightly wrapped bundle.

Even through the thick blanket, I could hear a low, harsh whimper.

That was the bastard Bianca had birthed.

Marco held his breath, tiptoeing to my bedside.

His hands trembled, ready to swap this foreign-scented infant for the pure-blooded heir that didn't exist.

He leaned over, the baby’s face inches from my neck.

And in that instant…

I snapped my eyes open.

In the dim glow of the nightlight, my gaze was a sliver of ice, locking onto his terrified, twisted face.

"Don," my voice cut through the darkness, "what are you doing?"