I was five months pregnant when I watched my husband Lorenzo's adopted sister, Isabella, douse our penthouse terrace in gasoline. This time, I didn't press the emergency button on my wrist.

In my last life, after I called for help, Lorenzo saved me, while Isabella was "shot" in the ensuing gunfight.

He was as affectionate as ever, but on the fourth night after our son was born, he sank us both to the bottom of the icy lake, his excuse cold and simple: "Isabella took a bullet for you."

As the frigid water swallowed me, he held me down with the same hands that had caressed me countless times, whispering in my ear, "Now you'll sink with what you treasure most."

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the floor of our burning apartment.

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1

The acrid smell of gasoline filled my lungs—thick, pungent, and suffocating.

I woke up, five months pregnant, to the choking scent of burning oak and imported silk.

Through the smoke, I saw her: Isabella, my husband's adopted sister, the family's Principessa, pouring fuel from a silver vase onto our terrace's expensive rug.

I didn't touch the emergency button on my wrist.

In my last life, I’d used the private line to call for help.

Lorenzo—my husband, my protector, the man I had loved fiercely since college—rushed to save me. He pulled me from a staged gunfight as Isabella fell before us, "shot."

For the remaining months of my pregnancy, he was the perfect husband, arranging for the best doctors and attending every prenatal check-up, always gentle, always attentive.

But on the fourth night after our son was born, he brought us to the lakeside pier. He stood under the moonlight, impeccably dressed, and pronounced his judgment.

He would sink us in the deep water. First my son's cradle, then me. "You let Isabella take a bullet for you," he said, holding me under the surface. "So you can sink with what you treasure most."

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the floor of our burning penthouse.

This time, I pressed a soaked Hermès scarf to my mouth and nose and dialed an anonymous number. Let him choose her again. But this time, in front of the entire underworld.

Three minutes later, the crystal chandelier crashed down. A shard of Czech crystal slammed into my shoulder. The bone snapped. I screamed, my voice swallowed by the thick smoke. Another burning beam crashed into my hip. Blood pooled quickly, soaking the home I had built for him. My son—only five months along, once safe in my womb—gave a faint kick, and then went still.

I heard him through the explosions—the distinct sound of Italian leather shoes on the marble floor. His tall figure moved through the smoke.

Lorenzo had arrived.

I heard Isabella's voice first. "Lorenzo—I can't breathe—"

He bent down. Swept her into his arms. Her cheek pressed against his neck as he murmured, "I've got you. I'll never let you go."

He stepped over the burning carpet. Over the threshold. Over his wife and his unborn heir, leaving us to die in the flames.

I turned my head, the thick smoke scalding my eyes. I couldn't stop coughing.

An Italian leather shoe nudged my ribs. Casually. As if testing a corpse. It was his Underboss, Marco. "Jealous enough to burn down your own home. A shame the Don isn't watching."

I crawled forward, my diamond ring screeching against the marble. My coat was singed, my skin blistered. The expensive ointments for such things were, at that moment, being applied to Isabella's unburnt wrist three blocks away.

I begged them in a hoarse voice. "Please… the baby…"

Marco glanced down, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Cut the act, Donna. Everyone knows you hate Isabella. Setting fire to your own home? That's insane, even for you."

He kicked my side. Contemptuously. Dismissively. "The Don has already chosen. You're just humiliating yourself. Keep this up, and he'll have the lawyers serving you papers by sunrise."

I couldn't speak. My uterus contracted, sharp and violent. I tasted copper. A mouthful of blood.

The family's Soldati moved around me, extinguishing the expensive flames, not a single one giving me a second glance.

A voice cut through the chaos. "Blood! God, she's bleeding!"

"Probably red wine," Marco called back. "Isabella said she'd use anything to make it look real. Five months along? That baby's not coming out. Let her play her games."

Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

I saw Lorenzo's handmade Italian shoes stop at the edge of my sight. He knelt. His gloved hand—leather, smelling of Isabella's Chanel perfume—gripped my chin, forcing my face toward him.

"Wake up, Aurelia," he growled. "Stop this act. I'm here."

He shook me. Hard.

"You think I can't see through this? Burning down our home just to frame her? Pathetic."

His hand left my face. It fell to my stomach. And pressed. Hard.

I arched my back, screaming without a sound.

"Good act," he murmured, his voice laced with contempt. "But I know you, Aurelia. You always get what you want, don't you? Even if it means burning down our home for my attention."

"Lorenzo—" I grabbed his Armani sleeve. My hand was weak, my nails caked with blood. "The baby—he's not moving—"

He glanced at my stomach. Five months. A slight curve.

Then he looked back toward the door, where Isabella's weak, practiced voice was calling his name.

He clenched his jaw. He pried my fingers from his sleeve. One by one.

"Almost convincing. If Isabella hadn't warned me you'd fake an injury after starting the fire, I might have actually believed you."

He stood. Turned. And walked away without a backward glance.

Darkness consumed me.

In my dreams, I returned to the first time I met Lorenzo.

It was at an art auction. He stood before a da Vinci, his features sharp, his eyes the color of amber. His lethal power and authority had already enthralled the city's countless socialites.

I was one of them. After one glance, I became obsessed.

Back then, I was just an architectural designer from a middle-class family, and he paid me no mind. I poured everything into my work, earning accolades that finally put me on his radar. Under the guise of celebrating a new commission, I invited him to a private concert and finally earned a flicker of interest in his gaze.

I seized the opportunity, pursuing him with everything I had: meticulously crafted architectural models, rare artworks, and antique jewelry. He finally accepted my advances.

I thought it was the beginning of happiness. It was the start of a nightmare.

After our marriage, he grew distant. Any date could be canceled for "family business." I never suspected a thing until our wedding, when I accidentally saw the surveillance footage from his office. Isabella had compiled a decade's worth of call logs—every feigned crisis, every trembling voice that summoned him to her side. All the times he had canceled on me, he had been with her. He would stay by her bedside all night to soothe "nightmares," calm her "fragile nerves" with expensive gifts, and drop everything to defend her at the slightest offense.

Even more pathetic, I lacked the courage to confront him, terrified he would leave.

In my last life, when Isabella was "shot," he had been unnervingly calm. I actually thought I had won. He lavished me and the baby with attention, pouring all his affection on me. That sudden love blinded me completely. It wasn't until he killed me after I gave birth that I understood: his affection had just been the prelude to his revenge.

When I woke up, I was in a small clinic. Beside me was not Lorenzo, but a stranger.

"You're awake?" A middle-aged man leaned over me. He didn't have the air of a gangster—just the smell of antiseptic, an unlicensed doctor from the poor side of town. "I live in the apartment below you. Saw the explosion, went up to check, and found you on the floor, bleeding. Brought you here myself." He clenched his jaw. "Those bastards from the Family were all crowded around some other woman, didn't even give you a second look."

I struggled to move. When my hand touched my stomach, I froze. It was flat.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes filled with sympathy. "The baby… he was already gone when I got to you."

A bitter smile touched my lips. "It's not your fault. I know." I paused. "Thank you for saving me."

A stranger could see I was dying, while my husband of five years wouldn't spare me a glance.

Seeing my breakdown, the stranger, Joel, was more furious than I was. "What the hell is wrong with that Family? A pregnant woman is bleeding out, and they do nothing?" he growled. "If I hadn't gone up, you would have died! Doesn't your husband care at all? Give me his number, I'll contact him. You shouldn't be alone."

I shook my head. A hoarse whisper escaped my lips. "The child's father is dead to me."

Joel's face softened with sympathy. He offered to stay and care for me until I recovered, but I refused. I transferred the medical fees to his account and insisted he leave.

Though he left, the storm on the underworld's private channels was just beginning.

The topic "Explosion at Castello Heir's Penthouse" rocketed to the top of every trending list. Neighbors had uploaded photos of me—crawling from the wreckage, covered in blood, while the family's Soldati formed a protective ring around Isabella.

The public channels were in an uproar. Thousands of comments demanded an investigation, damning the Soldati for ignoring a pregnant woman and her unborn child.

I scrolled through the furious comments, feeling this was far too light a punishment for Lorenzo. I was about to send a message when a smug photo from Isabella arrived.

She was in this very hospital, one floor below me. In the photo, Lorenzo was feeding her a bowl of consommé with a silver spoon, blowing on each spoonful, his eyes as gentle as I had ever seen them.

I had seen countless intimate images of them. They no longer stirred a thing in me.

I closed the chat and dialed Lorenzo's number. He answered on the fifth ring, his voice thick with impatience.

"You still have the nerve to call?" he roared. "What do you want? To see if Isabella is dead? Sorry to disappoint you—I saved her! She's alive and well, recovering in a suite one floor below you!"

"Aurelia, I've known you for five years, and I never took you for a murderer. Do you realize what you've done? You tried to kill her! Are you insane?"

"I'm giving you one hour. Come down and apologize to her. Otherwise, our lawyers will handle our annulment."

Before I could speak, Isabella's practiced, tearful voice came through the phone.

"Lorenzo… don't blame her. It's all my fault. If she needs to say I started the fire, then let her. Just don't argue with her. A pregnant woman can't handle the stress."

Lorenzo let out a long, disappointed sigh. "You're too kind. That's why she dares to walk all over you. We grew up together—in the same family. Who does Aurelia think she is? What right does she have to lay a hand on you?"

"Don't worry. This time, I'm going to teach her a lesson she'll never forget."

As they sank into their hypocritical performance, I spoke clearly into the phone.

"Fine. Let's get an annulment. I agree. I'll have my lawyers prepare the papers. You just have to sign."

Lorenzo had clearly never expected me to be the one to demand an annulment.

He froze for a second before his fury erupted over the phone. I ended the call before he could get another word out.

Instantly, my phone was bombarded with texts, each one burning with his rage.

"Where are you? Aurelia, are you out of your mind? I tolerate you because you're carrying my heir. Don't push your luck."

"You think being pregnant gives you a free pass? I'll dissolve this marriage, and when that child is born, you'll be on your knees begging me to sign the birth certificate!"

"And that story on the public forums—retract it. Now. Don't make me show this city who you really are."

I didn't read any further. I deleted the messages and blocked his number. Even though he had murdered me in my previous life, the betrayal still felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

The medical staff came in to change my dressings, gossiping freely, oblivious to the dead look in my eyes.

"The Don downstairs is so handsome," one sighed. "I've never seen such a perfect couple! Childhood sweethearts, destined for each other—so romantic!"

"You're behind," another laughed. "The latest is that he's paid a fortune to book the hospital's entire kitchen just to make her soup himself every day!"

"I tried to change her ointment earlier, and he wouldn't let me near her. Insisted on doing it himself. True soulmates."

...

I stared numbly at the diamond watch on my wrist. The peeling skin on my arm itched and ached beneath the bandages.

After they left, I gasped, my mouth open, fighting for air that wouldn't come.

That evening, the head physician came to examine me. He said the heavy blow to my abdomen had caused permanent damage. I would likely never conceive again.

My first reaction, strangely, was relief. Thank God. No child would ever have to suffer with me. An innocent life deserved a better fate.

After everyone had left, I checked the public forums. The storm of public opinion had forced the family to issue a statement. Their explanation was that the explosion was a meticulous plot I had orchestrated myself. That I had acted out of jealousy, deliberately harming Isabella, wasting rescue resources, and dragging my husband's name through the mud.

In the report, a family spokesman spoke of peace, but every word placed the blame on me. To add credibility, Lorenzo created an official account and broadcast a confirmation of our impending annulment to the entire city. His move nailed me to a pillar of shame. The curses once aimed at his men now turned on me like a tidal wave. My social media was flooded, and my access was revoked. My attempts to explain were drowned in the howls of the mob.

Over the next few days, I felt the hostility from every nurse and doctor who entered my room. If not for their professional oath, they would have thrown me onto the street. Every morning brought packages from across the city, each one containing a threat.

I never once defended myself.

It wasn't until the day the doctor approved my discharge that I sent a single message to Lorenzo.

"Tomorrow. Palazzo Restaurant. To finalize the annulment."

He seized the opportunity, calling back immediately. "Finally showing your face? I warned you. I gave you a chance. You refused to retract the news, so don't blame me for what happens next. If Isabella hadn't begged me to spare you, I would have had you disappeared by now. An annulment? Fine! But don't come crawling back when you pop out a bastard with no father to claim him!"

He cut the call. I opened my apartment's security system and copied the footage of Isabella pouring the gasoline.

The next morning, after my discharge, I went straight to the restaurant, documents in hand. But waiting for me on the marble steps was Isabella.

"I told you," she smiled, her eyes glinting with malice. "You can never win. Your husband is just my faithful little dog."

Her gaze dropped to my abdomen. She feigned shock. "Oh, the bastard's gone? What a pity. Last time, his own father drowned him with his bare hands. This time, he killed the poor thing with indifference. With a mother like you, he was never meant to live long anyway…"

She was reborn too.

Before I could think, my hand flew out. I slapped her across the face. Weak from blood loss, I had no strength, but she collapsed with theatrical grace.

"Isabella!"

Lorenzo charged past me. His shoulder slammed into my back, knocking me aside. I tumbled down the stone steps, my head connecting hard with the unforgiving stone. Blood streamed down my face.

Lorenzo gathered her into his arms, murmuring apologies. Then, as if remembering something, he whipped his head toward me.

His gaze locked onto my stomach. Flat. Empty.

The color drained from his face.

He rushed over, trying to pull me into his arms. "The baby—" his voice was a raw, terrified rasp. "Where is our child?"