On the eve of our marriage, my fiancé, Dante—Underboss of the Moretti family—was diagnosed with severe PTSD after a shootout and supposedly lost all memory of me.

Around the same time, I discovered I was pregnant.

"Maybe a child," the doctor suggested, "will awaken the part of him that still loves you."

I clung to that hope until I heard them at the boxing gym.

"Faking PTSD to ditch the Principessa? Damn, Dante, that's cold," one of his men laughed.

"Shut up," he snapped, but there was no heat in it. He was enjoying this.

"I'll marry her. Eventually," he said. "First, I'm gonna have some fun."

Another voice jeered. "Screwing her cousin and whores, you mean? That's bold, even for you."

Dante just chuckled. "You don't get it. Those women… I can't stay away from that kind of thrill. It's fucking addictive."

Without another word, I turned on my heel and left.

That night, at a private clinic, I scheduled an abortion.

————————

1

My fiancé, Dante—the man who once swore he loved me—was at his club, lost in the debauchery of his VIP room.

There, he reveled with women barely out of their teens, their flirtatious laughter echoing in the air.

"Harder, come on! My powerful boss..."

"Ah! Any rougher and I don't think I can take it!"

Over the phone, I heard the familiar voice of my cousin, Carina—panting, laughing.

In his haze, Dante hadn't even realized he'd pocket-dialed the wrong number.

I couldn't fucking believe it. My fiancé. My own cousin. Lost in their sordid little world.

A wave of revulsion burned through me.

I hung up and drove straight to the clinic.

That night, I returned to the Falcone estate.

It was the home I once belonged to, a place I hadn’t set foot in since my “relationship” with Dante began.

As the Principessa of the Falcone family, I’d been willing to sacrifice everything for Dante—my identity, my pride, all of it.

But now, I finally saw how blind I had been.

When the Falcone family's doctor learned of my decision, his eyes clouded with confusion.

"Isabella, this child represents the union of the Falcone and Moretti families. You know what's at stake. Are you certain about this? If Dante finds out, the shock could trigger a relapse."

I gave a bitter smile, my gaze falling to my flat stomach.

"He'd probably feign a heart attack if he knew."

After all, he was still hopelessly entangled in the arms of the young, beautiful women at his club.

How was this possible? The same man who had wept while proposing to me was now faking an illness just to cheat.

Unable to persuade me, the doctor reluctantly prepared the surgical documents.

Still, he insisted on calling Dante.

"Isabella, this child isn't just yours. Even if Dante is sick, he should be here to sign the papers. He needs to be with you. What if this is all just a misunderstanding?"

I didn't stop him.

Deep down, I knew this child had been the strongest bond between us—a bond I had cherished, knowing how difficult it was for me to conceive due to my endometriosis.

When I was diagnosed with fertility issues, Dante had been unwavering.

He claimed he loved me enough to defy his own parents, fighting them just to marry me.

Now, as I chose to part with our child, the least he could do was be here to say goodbye.

But when the call connected, his cold laughter echoed through the phone.

"Isabella's pregnant? Impossible. How much did my dear Principessa pay you to spin this little fairy tale? If she thinks a baby will force my hand, tell her to forget it. Who the fuck even knows if the kid is mine?"

The dial tone buzzed in my ear, his scornful laughter hanging in the silence of the operating room.

I signed the papers myself, closing my eyes as the ink dried.

Waking up after the procedure, my phone was flooded with a dozen messages from Dante.

Dante: Isabella, I didn't realize you cared so little for me. I'm sick, and you're still pushing for this marriage? You, the Principessa of the Falcone family, resorting to faking a pregnancy to trick me? From now on, we're done. Move out. I don't want to see you again.

A bitter thought surfaced—he had the nerve to kick me out of a penthouse my dowry had paid for. The Morettis had power, but they never had that kind of cash.

I glanced at the bloody gauze, the only trace of the child that would never be, and replied calmly, "Okay."

He didn't deserve to be a father.

In the three days I spent recovering in the hospital, he never once showed his face.

But his social media became a highlight reel of parties, booze, and fawning women—a clear message that he was making up for lost time.

I knew he was posting it all for me, so I gave him what he wanted and liked every single post.

On the day of my discharge, as I was finishing the paperwork, I saw an unexpected sight: Dante and the Falcone family doctor in the hallway, rushing a gurney toward the emergency room.

What was the Underboss of the Moretti family doing in a hospital on Falcone turf? It made no sense.

Dante's eyes flickered over me for a fraction of a second before he quickly looked away, pretending he didn't know me.

The ER doctor's anxious shouts, however, reached me loud and clear.

"Prep OR One! We need a rare Rh-negative blood type! Patient has a ruptured corpus luteum from a car accident, severe internal bleeding—needs a transfusion, now!"

"What? The blood bank is out?"

After the call, the doctor rushed over to Dante and whispered something in his ear.

Dante stopped short.

The next moment, he turned and strode toward me, a flash of desperation on his face.

"Isabella, if you donate blood for Carina, I'll forget about you stalking me," he said, his voice urgent but laced with a sickening sense of entitlement.

I froze, then let out a bitter laugh.

"I wasn't stalking you."

"Enough excuses! A life is on the line!"

He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the doctor.

"She's Rh-negative. Take as much as you need, just keep Carina alive!"

I struggled against his grip, but his hand tightened like a vise, forcing me forward.

I asked coldly, "You wanted to cut all ties. How would you even know my blood type?"

I stared at him, waiting for an answer.

Dante paced restlessly outside the emergency room, his agitation radiating off him like heat.

His voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving.

"Isabella! Is this really the time for an argument? We were together for six years, and Carina is your goddamn cousin! Of course I remember your blood type."

I remained silent, my body threatening to collapse at any moment.

I had just had an abortion. I was still bleeding.

And here he was, demanding my blood for his mistress.

The physical toll of the procedure was immense, and the Rh-negative bloodline of the Falcone family was rare.

Donating blood would have been dangerous even if I were healthy.

Besides, why should I risk my life for a man like him?

Hadn't Dante considered the consequences when he brought his mistress onto Falcone territory?

Everyone knew we were engaged. The union of Falcone and Moretti was meant to reshape New York City's underworld.

Yet he had dragged the honor of both our families through the mud for my cousin.

"I just had an abortion," I said calmly.

"I can't donate blood. Find someone else."

Dante's anger flared, his words scorching.

"Isabella! You always claimed to love me. Now I'm just asking for a little blood, and you're using an abortion as an excuse? This is who you really are. You'd rather let Carina die than lift a finger. I can't believe I ever loved someone so cold-hearted."

His accusation landed like a punch.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he’d never loved me.

Because if he had, he wouldn't have faked an illness to cheat on me.

He wouldn't have ignored the exhaustion etched on my face and tried to force me to donate blood for his mistress.

And he certainly wouldn't have been sleeping with my cousin.

A harsh alarm from a nearby monitor shattered the tense standoff.

The ER doctors rushed Carina into surgery.

In a flash of frustration, Dante hoisted me over his shoulder and hauled me toward the blood donation area like a conquest.

"Isabella, like it or not, I'll owe you for this," he said gruffly.

"Damn it, I'll even marry you on the original date if that's what it takes."

This was the future Don of the Moretti family—cold, reckless, and willing to do anything to get what he wanted.

I stopped resisting.

Perhaps this was my way of settling an old debt.

Once, he had risked his life to save me during an ambush by a rival family.

Now, this would settle the score.

As the crimson blood flowed into the collection bag, a chill seeped into the marrow of my bones.

After the donation, Dante rushed after the nurse toward the operating room without a single glance in my direction.

As his back disappeared down the hall, I whispered to the empty space, "Now, we're even, Dante."

Later, I woke up in a hospital bed, exhaustion pressing down on me like a lead blanket.

The doctor's voice cut through the haze.

"You can't donate again for at least six months," the doctor stated gravely. "If you try, it could kill you."

I nodded weakly, a faint, detached smile on my lips.

After he left, I checked my phone.

A dozen missed calls from the hospital to Dante's emergency contact number.

Not one had been answered.

Instead, there was a single text message from him.

Dante: Isabella, stop being so fucking dramatic. Know your place.

I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity.

The last flicker of warmth I held for him froze solid in that moment.

I couldn't connect the man who had once loved me with the venom in those words.

I didn't reply. I spent the following days recovering in silence.

When I finally felt strong enough, I dragged myself to the hospital garden, hoping to soak in some sun and melt the frost inside me.

Instead, my path was blocked by a group of Dante's men.

Each of them carried bouquets and fruit baskets. For a brief, foolish moment, I thought they were for me.

I turned to leave, but they blocked my path, their taunts like sharp jabs.

"Well, look who it is. The great Falcone Principessa. Dante's with his new girl, and you're still here playing the victim? Pathetic."

"Isn't this a bit much? Acting so weak over a little blood. What a drama queen."

"Guess even a Principessa can't keep her man. Getting played by your own cousin. Fucking priceless."

Their words stung, but I steadied myself and glared back at them.

"Don't forget that the Falcone name is worth more than anything the Morettis can offer.

Keep talking, and you'll drag Dante's name right down into the mud with you."

They froze, momentarily taken aback.

Before they could retort, Dante emerged from the stairwell.

His gaze landed on me, his brow furrowed in frustration.

"Isabella, really? You have to pick a fight with my men?"

His tone grew colder, each word suffocating.

"I already said I'd marry you. What the hell more do you want? Stop faking sick to spy on me. Pull this shit after we're married, and it’ll be bad for both our families."

"Don't trouble yourself. I don't need a pity marriage for the sake of our families."

For six years, I gave him his freedom.

When he wanted to drink, I’d sit with him in silence, never rushing him.

If my presence was inconvenient, I would leave, waiting for his call to pick me up without complaint.

When he was drunk, I cared for him with endless patience.

When he wanted to go on "business trips" with his friends—chasing thrills and partying all night—I planned their itineraries, bought their tickets, and mapped their routes.

I even refused when he offered to let me check his phone.

I loved him, but I was terrified my status would suffocate him, so I never tried to control him.

I was determined not to repeat my mother's mistakes, who had pushed my father away with her suffocating expectations.

I thought I had managed our relationship perfectly, that we had found a stable, harmonious balance.

Before his betrayal, we were still like a couple in the first flush of love.

He craved me, his hunger for me seemingly endless.

But now I saw the truth—he loved me, yes. But he also loved the thrill of any woman who wasn't me, incapable of resisting temptation.

Was that why he faked his illness? For a new kind of thrill? He'd even had the tattoo of my name on his chest covered with Carina's.

Our eyes met, but there wasn't a trace of love in his.

The questions burning on my tongue died in my throat, leaving only silence.

Dante frowned under my intense gaze.

He snatched the bouquets from his men and shoved them into my arms.

"Here," he grunted, thrusting them at me. "Take them. Just take the goddamn flowers and leave."

In his eyes, I was still that simple girl, easily satisfied with the smallest gesture.

He never considered that I was the Principessa of the Falcone family, a woman who had seen the world.

My contentment had never been about the gifts—it was because I loved him.

He couldn't comprehend that when I said I wouldn't marry him, I meant it.

I handed the flowers back to his men.

"These are for Carina. It's not appropriate for me to accept them. I donated that blood of my own free will. You don't need to force yourself to marry me."

For a moment, Dante's expression faltered.

A flicker of panic crossed his face.

"Isabella… Carina and I… it's nothing. I still love you."

I smiled faintly.

"Alright. You go take care of my dear cousin. I'll handle my discharge papers. Go on with your business."

My words dug into him.

He stiffened, then turned his head away, hiding his discomfort.

His men wasted no time, slinging their arms around his shoulders and steering him away.

"Come on, Dante, Carina's waiting. She almost died for you—unlike some people who give a little blood and think it buys them a wedding. She'll get jealous if you're not back soon. Besides, we've got some new talent lined up for you tonight!"

"Isabella's just putting on an act. She'll come crawling back. Women are all the same. You're too soft on her, boss."

Their words were meant to hurt, but I felt nothing.

Only a cold numbness, as if I were standing on the frozen Hudson River in the dead of winter, cut off from all warmth forever.

With Dante gone, I called the only housekeeper I trusted at the penthouse to help me pack.

One by one, the custom gowns, the photo albums, the decorations—all of it disappeared.

And with them, the fragile dream of a shared future peeled away, revealing the brutal truth.

The housekeeper stared at the bare, sterile apartment and hesitated.

"Principessa Isabella, all of this was for the wedding. Are you really giving up on it?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice calm and detached.

"The groom is dead," I said, my voice flat. "This is all for a funeral."

At my words, her hands trembled, and she dared not say more, carefully disposing of the wedding photos and the Moretti family engagement ring.

Once the apartment was stripped bare, I stood at the threshold with my suitcase.

I looked at the once-familiar door and, from my phone, deleted my fingerprint and iris data from the lock.

From this moment on, this was no longer my home.