When Serena left the cab and returned to the Romano villa, she barely had the strength to keep her steps steady.

Inside, Isabella was sprawled across the leather couch in a silk robe—Serena’s robe, stolen from her wardrobe. A jeweled necklace glittered against her pale skin, one Luca had once pressed into Serena’s palm after a successful shipment.

The moment Isabella spotted her, a mocking smile curved her lips.

“Back so soon? You look like hell,” she said sweetly, standing with deliberate slowness. Her hand rose to tilt Serena’s chin, nails grazing her skin.

“Look at you—white as a corpse. People will think you’re halfway to the grave.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice until her breath tickled Serena’s ear. “See this necklace? He fastened it himself. Said it looked better on me. Just like the rest of him.”

The words were poison. Serena’s hand shot up, and the crack of her palm against Isabella’s cheek echoed through the hall.

“Know your place,” Serena hissed. “I’m Luca’s wife. You’re nothing but the woman he sneaks around with. Push me further, and I’ll go public. The world will know you’re nothing but a thief who clawed her way into another woman’s bed.”

Isabella’s face burned, but her smile never faltered. Instead, her knees buckled, and she crumpled dramatically to the floor just as footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“Serena, stop!” she gasped, tears spilling on command. “I never should have come here—I’ll leave, I swear! I’d rather die than ruin your marriage!”

Before Serena could react, Luca’s shadow loomed. He was at Isabella’s side in an instant, catching her before she “collapsed.”

“Isabella,” he said urgently, “I invited you here. If anyone has a problem with you, they have a problem with me.”

Serena’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. The words weren’t for her. They never were.

“Apologize to her,” Luca snapped, his eyes cold as steel.

“I did nothing wrong,” Serena answered, her voice low but steady. “Tell me, Luca—aren’t you even curious where I was last night?”

“Did you—” he began, a frown flickering.

“Aren’t you wondering—”

“I don’t care where you were,” he cut her off harshly. “What I care about is you laying hands on Isabella. Until you apologize, you’re stripped of your duties. You’ll stay confined here until you admit your mistake.”

For Luca, authority was everything. He thought taking her rank as underboss was the harshest punishment. What he didn’t realize was that Serena had only ever taken on the burden to protect him, to make his world lighter.

Her chest hollowed out, but her face remained calm. Luca turned away, carrying Isabella with him. Before leaving, he barked to the staff:

“Until she apologizes, she doesn’t eat.”

---

The days blurred.

Three times a day, the maid came with a tray—then whisked it away untouched when Serena refused to bow her head. She survived on water alone, her body weakening, but her spirit unbroken.

Isabella’s messages filled her phone. Photos of her wearing Serena’s dresses. A clip of her and Luca dining on the balcony. A video of his hand sliding a diamond ring onto hers in jest, as if mocking the vows Serena still bore.

In the past, the sight would have shattered her.

Now, it barely stirred her heart.

A man who betrayed so easily wasn’t worth her grief.

---

On the fourth night, Serena left her locked room for the garden. The air was cool, the night deceptively peaceful.

Then a blur of fur barreled from the shadows. A Rottweiler, Isabella’s prized guard dog, lunged straight into her. Normally, she could have braced herself, but days of hunger had hollowed her body to glass.

She hit the ground hard. Pain tore through her abdomen, blood soaking her clothes as her knees buckled under her. Her vision blurred. She knew at once—life inside her had been extinguished before it even had a chance.

“Help!” she gasped, clutching her belly. “Please!”

The guards rushed forward, panic etched into their faces. One lifted her, shouting orders as the driver started the car.

But when they reached the street, red barricades blocked the way.

“I—I can’t go through!” the driver stammered. “Boss shut the roads down—Isabella’s birthday party. Streets are closed for her parade. No one passes without Luca’s clearance.”

Serena’s dress clung to her in wet crimson. Fireworks burst across the sky, showering the city in gold. Cheers echoed down the blocked street. All for Isabella.

Not for her. Never for her.

Her trembling hand reached for the ring on her finger. With all the strength she had left, she wrenched it free.

The diamond caught the flare of fireworks for one last brilliant flash—then clattered into the gutter, swallowed by darkness.

Her husband. Her marriage. All of it—gone.

When Serena opened her eyes again, the smell of antiseptic stung her nose. White light poured through half-drawn blinds. She was in a private hospital suite—one owned by the Romano family, where discretion was worth more than medicine.

The clan’s physician stood at her bedside, his face grave. “Madam, your body couldn’t endure the strain. With no food for days, and under such stress… the child is gone. I’m sorry.”

Her hand instinctively pressed against her abdomen. Empty. The small spark of life that had barely begun had already vanished.

Tears slid silently down her cheeks. Maybe the child had sensed the war between its parents and chosen not to linger in a world like this.

“Your body needs rest,” the doctor added gently. “Where’s your husband? He should be here.”

Serena steadied her breathing, forcing her voice calm. “I don’t have a husband.” Then, after a pause: “What’s the shortest time I can remain here?”

“At least three days.”

“Good.” She nodded faintly. “That’s enough.” Three days—just long enough for Dante’s promised deadline.

The door banged open. Luca entered, jacket unbuttoned, hair disheveled as though he’d rushed. His eyes flicked across her pale form, tension in his jaw.

“Why are you here?” she asked flatly.

The driver at his side began to explain, but Serena cut in, her voice low. “I hadn’t eaten in days. My body collapsed.”

Isabella, slipping in behind him, let out a tinkling laugh. “Serena, you grew up tougher than any of us. Who knew you’d turn so fragile now? What a pity.”

Serena said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her silence was louder than any retort.

Luca’s gaze lingered on her, something like anger loosening into unease. His voice softened, almost a whisper. “When did you become this stubborn? An apology would have ended it. Why let it get this far? If you weren’t well, why didn’t you call me?”

Her eyes met his. Cold, steady, mocking. Call you? He had been busy shutting her away, feeding Isabella her stolen place. What use was it to beg him for scraps?

“You were busy,” she murmured instead. “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

For some reason, the words scraped against him. A flicker of guilt cut through his chest.

Perhaps because of it, he began visiting daily while she remained in the ward. Not out of love, Serena knew—only guilt, the kind a Don shows when a soldier suffers under his order.

---

On the morning of her discharge, she sat quietly on the bed, her phone in hand. Messages scrolled across the screen—encrypted numbers, Dante’s code.

Her lips curved faintly, though she quickly smoothed it away when Luca entered.

“Who are you speaking with?” he asked, suspicion sharp in his tone. His hand darted toward her phone.

She drew it back with ease, her smile cool. “Do you really need to pry into a woman’s private messages?”

His hand froze midair. After a tense beat, he withdrew it. “Enough. We’re going home.”

She only hummed softly, expression unreadable.

Luca thought he had eased the wound with his presence these past days. He didn’t see the hollowness behind her calm.

When he dropped her at the estate, he left immediately for another meeting.

---

Inside, Serena went straight to the study. The safe’s steel door opened beneath her touch.

She placed the hospital’s report inside, its cold words sealing the truth of what she had lost. Then she reached for a thin black ledger—its cover worn, its pages lined with neat, ruthless handwriting.

It was her private book of debts. Not of money, but of betrayals. Dates, names, wounds. A silent tally of every time her loyalty was repaid with cruelty.

On the final line, she wrote:

“Final debt: my child. Account closed.”

She snapped the ledger shut, slid it into the safe alongside the divorce papers, and locked it all away.

That would be her anniversary gift.

Then, with quiet precision, she packed her suitcase, set the villa keys on the dining table, and erased her fingerprint from the armory’s biometric lock.

Every trace of her existence here—wiped clean.

By the time Luca realized, she would already be gone.