After spraining my ankle, I took a cab to the private clinic alone.

The whole ride there, my ankle throbbed so badly that every tiny bump in the road sent pain shooting up my leg. I sat in the back seat, clutching the edge of my coat, staring blankly at the city lights sliding past the window. The driver kept glancing in the rearview mirror, probably wondering why a woman dressed for dinner at a Family estate was heading to a clinic on neutral ground without a single soldier beside her.

When I arrived, the nurse helped me onto a bed and asked, "Is your family here with you?"

For a moment, I opened my mouth out of habit.

"He's in a sit-down."

The excuse came so naturally that even I found it pathetic.

I had spent years defending Lorenzo DeLuca like that. Whenever he forgot me, ignored me, or chose someone else over me, I would always find a reason for him. He was handling Family business. He was tired. He had no choice. He didn't mean it.

But tonight, lying alone on a clinic bed with my swollen ankle propped up, I suddenly felt ridiculous.

So I looked away and changed my answer.

"Actually," I said quietly, "I'm a widow."

The nurse froze for a second, then her expression softened with sympathy.

I didn't explain.

In a way, it wasn't entirely a lie.

The Lorenzo who once loved me was already dead.

The treatment went smoothly. The doctor said it wasn't too serious, but I needed to rest and avoid putting weight on my ankle for a while.

There wasn't much physical pain after that.

But deep inside my chest, there was a hollow ache that kept spreading, as if something important had been carved out of me and left behind an empty, bleeding space.

I lay there in the sterile room, the smell of disinfectant thick in the air, and unlocked my phone.

The first thing I saw was an update from Vincent Caruso's private account.

Life's easy when there's no tigress around to keep watch. Lorenzo really has a soft spot for Adriana.

Attached to the post was a photo.

In it, Lorenzo was sitting beside a hospital bed, looking down at Adriana Bellini with an expression so gentle it almost hurt to see.

Adriana lay on the bed, pale and fragile, while Lorenzo leaned toward her slightly, his eyes full of concern.

Anyone who saw that photo would think they were a couple.

No.

Not just a couple.

They looked like two people who had always belonged together.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I gave the post a like.

Almost immediately, the post disappeared.

I let out a faint laugh.

So they had forgotten to block me.

A moment later, Lorenzo messaged me.

[Bianca, don't misunderstand. Adriana wasn't feeling well, so I just brought her to the hospital. Everyone else was there too.]

His explanation was careful.

Too careful.

I looked at the message and smiled calmly.

[Hope you're having a good time.]

The reply came almost instantly.

[Bianca, why aren't you checking on me?]

I stared at those words, and for some reason, I almost laughed again.

So this was what made him panic.

Not that I was hurt.

Not that I had gone to the clinic alone.

Not that I was pregnant and had waited for him all night.

What frightened him was that I had stopped questioning him.

Earlier that evening, I had rushed home to the estate for our anniversary.

I had prepared flowers, planned a surprise, and imagined that maybe, just maybe, Lorenzo would remember what day it was.

But when I hurried up the stairs, my foot slipped on the marble.

I fell hard.

Pain exploded through my ankle, sharp enough to make my vision blur.

Still, the first thing I did was not call for the Family driver.

I messaged Lorenzo.

I told him I had hurt my ankle and asked if he could come back after his business was done.

I waited with the flowers in my arms, foolishly hoping he would come back.

His reply was short and careless.

[There's a drinking party tonight. Just get whatever you want for dinner.]

Then, as if he already knew what I would ask, he added another message.

[No strangers. Just friends from back in the day.]

Friends from back in the day.

Those words felt like a bucket of ice water poured straight over my head.

I looked down at the flowers in my arms.

They suddenly seemed stupid.

So did I.

I threw them into the trash, called a cab, and went to the clinic by myself.

On the way back, I saw Lorenzo's familiar black sedan pass by outside the taxi window.

It was heading toward the hospital.

For one brief second, my heart still moved.

I even reached for my phone, wanting to ask him why he was there.

Then I saw Vincent's post.

So that was why.

Not for me.

Never for me.

Their circle had always been close. Four made men and one protected woman. They had grown up together in the same neighborhood, shared secrets over Sunday dinners, drank together at the social club, laughed together, and guarded each other like blood.

And in that circle, Lorenzo and Adriana had always been the perfect pair.

The golden boy and the jade girl.

Everyone thought they would end up together.

If Adriana hadn't been persuaded to marry a foreign associate back then, I probably never would have had the chance to marry Lorenzo at all.

But now Adriana had returned to the States.

Divorced.

With a young son.

And just like that, I became the villain.

No one blamed Adriana for leaving Lorenzo years ago. No one blamed her for coming back and leaning on a married man. Instead, they all looked at me as if I were the intruder.

As if I had stolen a love story that was never meant to belong to me.

That group loved to drink late into the night at the social club on Mulberry Street. Lorenzo had a weak stomach, so whenever he stayed out too long, I would call to remind him not to drink too much and to come home early.

I thought I was caring for him.

But in their eyes, I was controlling. A wet blanket. A jealous wife who ruined everyone's fun.

Behind my back, they called me The Tigress.

And whenever they came to our home, they never treated me like Lorenzo's wife. They treated me like a glorified housekeeper. Someone who should cook, clean, pour drinks, smile politely, and then disappear.

Tonight, once again, Lorenzo had chosen them over me.

Chosen Adriana over me.

Maybe that was for the best.

At least now, I would no longer be tempted to soften.

At least now, I could finally stop lying to myself.

Around three in the morning, Lorenzo finally came home.

The bedroom door was closed, but I heard him moving around outside. The estate was so quiet at that hour that every sound carried: the soft click of the front lock, the enforcers shifting on their rotation outside the windows, then his footsteps. His steps were unsteady, heavy with alcohol. He lingered in the kitchen for a while, probably expecting to find the sobering soup I used to make for him every time he came home drunk.

But tonight, there was nothing.

A few minutes later, he quietly pushed open the bedroom door.

When he saw that I was still awake, panic flashed across his face.

It was quick.

Almost too quick to catch.

Then he walked over as if nothing had happened and gently pulled the quilt higher over my shoulders.

"No sobering soup for me tonight?" he asked softly.

I hummed faintly and turned my gaze away.

The smell of alcohol clung to him, thick and bitter.

But underneath it, there was something else.

A faint trace of perfume.

Sweet.

Delicate.

Feminine.

My stomach turned. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wedding band until the stone bit into my palm.

Lorenzo seemed to want to say something. He looked at me for a while, his lips parting slightly, but in the end, he only sighed.

Maybe he was waiting for me to question him.

Maybe he was waiting for me to cry, to argue, to demand an explanation the way I used to.

But I said nothing.

And silence, it seemed, made him more uneasy than any accusation.

After a long pause, he finally said, "You're pregnant. Get some rest."

Then he turned and left.

I lay there, staring into the darkness. Somewhere beyond the bedroom wall, the grandfather clock in the hallway marked the hour. Outside, the faint crunch of gravel told me a soldier was completing his circuit around the estate. The house was full of men sworn to protect the DeLuca name, and not one of them had been sent to find me tonight.

Pregnant.

He still remembered that I was pregnant.

But he had forgotten that I could be hurt. Forgotten that I could feel pain. Forgotten that I was his wife.

And in that moment, I finally understood.

A man who only remembers your pregnancy but forgets your suffering is not protecting you.

He is only protecting the child he thinks belongs to him.

The next morning, I arrived at the front office earlier than usual.

No matter how tangled and suffocating my personal life had become, the ledgers still had deadlines. Accounts would not wait for my heartbreak, and the men who depended on clean numbers would not care that my marriage was quietly rotting from the inside.

For too long, I had been late because of Lorenzo.

I had stayed up making him sobering soup, woken early to prepare breakfast, reminded him of sit-downs, washed his shirts, packed his things, and cleaned up every mess he left behind.

I had mistaken all of that for love.

Now I only found it exhausting.

My early arrival clearly surprised my supervisor. When she walked past my desk, her brows lifted slightly, but she didn't say anything.

After the morning briefing, she called me into her office.

"Bianca," she began, her tone measured, "there's an opportunity to work at one of our foreign territory fronts. Marseille. Are you interested?"

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

"I've always valued your skills, but I was concerned about your family situation before, so I wasn't sure if you would be willing to leave."

Before she could finish, I nodded.

"I'm interested," I said calmly. "I'd be grateful for the opportunity. Thank you."

My answer came so quickly that she blinked in surprise.

For a moment, she seemed unsure whether she had heard me correctly.

Then her expression softened.

"I also noticed you threw away a bouquet last night," she said hesitantly. "Did you have a fight with your husband?"

I gave a small smile and shook my head.

A fight?

No.

Lorenzo never truly fought with me.

Whenever I questioned him, he would look at me with that patient, indulgent expression, as if I were a spoiled child throwing a meaningless tantrum.

He never argued because he never thought I was worth arguing with.

To him, my anger was noise.

My pain was drama.

My disappointment was something he could wait out until I eventually softened.

Just then, my phone vibrated twice.

I glanced down.

Lorenzo.

I answered.

His voice was gentle, but beneath that gentleness was a faint edge of displeasure.

"Busy today?" he asked. "Why did you leave without making breakfast?"

There it was.

Not, "How's your ankle?"

Not, "Did you sleep well?"

Not, "Are you feeling okay?"

His first concern was breakfast.

I said nothing.

After a short pause, he added, "Yesterday was our anniversary. I got you a gift."

"Oh?" I asked lightly, hiding the flicker of curiosity that still rose in me despite everything. "What gift?"

"A small box in my coat pocket," he said. "A ring."

I heard the rustle of fabric on the other end, followed by his low mutter as he searched his pockets.

"Strange. It's not here."

Then he seemed to realize something. His tone changed quickly, becoming almost too casual. I could picture him smoothing the strap of his watch flat against his wrist, already turning the lie into something that sounded reasonable.

"It must've fallen out in the car. I'll get you another one."

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

In the photo from last night, Adriana had been wearing a ring on her finger.

So even my anniversary gift had to be tried on by his protected little saint first.

How thoughtful.

How disgusting.

"No need," I said. "I forgot to get you anything anyway."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"Bianca?" Lorenzo's voice tightened. "Are you upset? I really did buy you a gift."

"Yeah," I replied flatly.

Then, before he could say anything else, I added, "If there's nothing else, I'll hang up now. I'm busy with work."

I ended the call.

From that day on, my relationship with Lorenzo settled into a strange, uneasy calm.

We lived under the same roof in that guarded estate, but the warmth between us had gone cold. The soldiers posted at the gates saw us come and go at different hours. If they noticed, they said nothing. Men in this world were trained not to notice.

He seemed to sense that something was wrong, yet he still assumed I would eventually return to the way I used to be.

He didn't understand that some things, once broken, did not make noise.

They simply stopped existing.

A few days later, the DeLuca matriarch invited me over for Sunday dinner.

That had never happened before.

She had never liked me.

In her eyes, Adriana had always been the daughter-in-law she truly wanted. I was only the woman who had stepped into a position that should have belonged to someone else.

Still, I did not refuse.