Seraphina POV:

"You understand you're terminating a healthy, four-month-old pregnancy, Mrs. Bianchi?" the doctor asks, his voice gentle but his eyes full of a judgment I can't bear to meet.

I stare at the pale green wall of the private clinic, the color of new leaves and dead hope.

Yes, I understand.

My mind betrays me again, flooding with memories of Lorenzo before the wedding, his hands tracing the line of my jaw as he swore he'd burn the world down for me. I remember the raw, unguarded joy on his face when I told him I was pregnant, how he'd dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to my belly, whispering promises to our child. He was so tender then, so fiercely protective.

That man is a ghost. The man who exists now is the one who let his mistress taunt me, who locked me away, who looked at me with the eyes of a stranger.

"Yes," I say, my voice flat and hard. "I'm sure."

The procedure is a cold, clinical agony. I focus on the sharp scrape of steel within me. It's a physical manifestation of the hollowing out of my soul. It's a pain I can control, a pain I have chosen.

When it's over, a nurse with kind eyes leans over me. "Would you like to... see it?" she asks softly.

That's when I break. The carefully constructed walls of ice around my heart splinter into a million unswept shards. A silent scream tears through me, but no sound comes out. Tears stream down my face, hot and endless.

My child. My baby. Gone.

Taken from me by my own hand, because I couldn't bear to bring it into a world where its own father had become a monster. I feel the loss like a physical amputation, a phantom limb that will ache for the rest of my life.

I wake up eight hours later in the recovery room. The first thing I do is check my phone. No missed calls. No messages.

He hasn't even noticed I'm gone.

My thumb hovers over Isabella's private social media page, a masochistic impulse I can't fight. There's a new post. A photo of her hand, her nails painted a blood-red, resting on Lorenzo's chest. In the background, you can see the rumpled sheets of an unfamiliar bed. The caption is simple: "Mine."

My face becomes a mask of stone as I turn to the nurse who has just entered the room. "The... remains," I say, the word catching in my throat. "I want them cremated. Please have them placed in a small, simple box."

She nods, her eyes full of a pity I don't want.

Ten days. That's how long it will take to get my new identity, my passport. Ten days I have to survive in this house, playing a part, before I can disappear forever.

When I return to the estate, the house is silent and empty. I walk into the master suite, to the small, personal mini-fridge Lorenzo had installed for my late-night pregnancy cravings. I open the door and place the small, plain wooden box in the very back, behind a carton of orange juice.

I close the door but don't move, just stand there, staring at the polished black surface of the fridge, feeling nothing and everything all at once.

I don't know how long I stand there, the cold air washing over my bare feet, before the heavy tread of his footsteps sounds in the hallway and the bedroom door swings open.

Lorenzo is home. He loosens his tie, his gaze sweeping over me with a flicker of annoyance. "Are you hungry, Sera?" he asks, his voice tired.

Then his gaze drifts past me, to the open fridge. His eyes narrow, snagging on the strange, small box tucked away in the back.

Seraphina POV:

As Lorenzo reaches for my stomach, a gesture that was once a comforting promise, I recoil. His touch feels like a brand.

His brow furrows. He assumes I'm still brooding over my "punishment."

"Don't be difficult, Seraphina," he says, a low warning threading through his tone. "This is for your own good." He glances down at my belly. "Next time you defy me, there will be consequences. For the child."

The words land like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs. A raw, hoarse sound escapes my throat. "There is no child," I try to tell him, the words scraping my throat. "I... I terminated the pregnancy."

Before the words can fully register, his phone rings, a shrill, demanding sound that cuts through the tension. He glances at the screen. Isabella.

He answers immediately, his tone instantly shedding its cold command for one of concerned affection. "What's wrong?"

I can hear her manufactured sobs through the phone, even from a few feet away. She's scared of the thunderstorm, she whimpers. She needs him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Lorenzo grabs his coat from the chair. He's already halfway to the door when he turns back to me, his expression a mask of impatience.

"What did you just say?" he asks, already shrugging the coat over his shoulders, his mind clearly with her.

I look at him, at the desperate urgency in his eyes to leave me and run to her. The fight drains out of me, replaced by a vast, empty calm. Why would I share the truth of my deepest wound with a man who wouldn't even pause to witness the damage?

"Nothing," I say quietly.

He doesn't press. He doesn't care enough to. Without a second glance, he's gone.

The front door slams shut, and a moment later, a deafening crack of thunder shakes the entire estate. The lights flicker. My legs give out, and I collapse onto the cold kitchen floor, pale and trembling.

A maid, Maria, one of the few who still looks at me with kindness, rushes to my side. "Mrs. Bianchi!" she murmurs, helping me to a chair. "You've always been so terrified of thunder." Her voice drops, heavy with a shared memory. "The Don... he used to rush home, no matter what meeting he was in."

I remember. I remember he had once flown his jet through a category three storm, just to get home to hold me until I fell asleep in his arms, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against the chaos outside.

Tonight, I spend the night curled in a ball on the floor, utterly alone, as the storm outside raged in tandem with the one inside me.

The next morning, Maria informs me that the Don has returned and requests my presence for breakfast.

I descend the grand staircase, my body aching, my soul numb. I find him at the dining table. And seated in my spot, the one at his right hand, is Isabella. She's wearing one of my silk robes.

Lorenzo looks up as I approach, his expression unreadable.

"Seraphina," he says, his voice cool. "Isabella was generous enough to stay and make sure the storm didn't upset you too much last night. You should thank her."

He then turns to Isabella, his fingers gently stroking her cheek with a possessive affection that sends a wave of bitter nausea through me. She leans into his touch, her eyes gleaming with triumph as her gaze lands on me.