The Night He Chose Her, I Lost Our Baby

The day I found out I was carrying an heir, I thought my life was finally about to change for the better. But on that very same day, my husband Dante's personal courier, Viviana, posted a photo of her baby bump on Instagram.

The caption read: [As long as you're loved, you can still be a beautiful girl—even when you're pregnant!] The words were sweet, almost poetic, but they felt like a deliberate provocation.

In the photo, she wore nothing but delicate lace lingerie, her body pressed intimately against Dante's chest as they took a selfie together. His hand rested casually on her bare, rounded belly, as if it belonged there.

What caught my eye the most was his hand. On his finger was a wedding ring identical to mine, gleaming under the light as if mocking me.

I stared at the image for a long moment before typing a single comment: [Congrats.]

Just seconds after I posted it, my phone rang. Viviana's name flashed on the screen.

Her voice came through hurried and panicked. She apologized over and over, saying she had posted the picture out of anger after a fight with her boyfriend. She claimed it was all a misunderstanding.

Before I could respond, Dante's voice cut in sharply. He had taken the phone from her.

"You can't have a baby, so now you're losing your mind because someone else is pregnant?" he snapped. "No wonder you can't conceive with that kind of jealousy."

His words were cold and cruel, leaving no room for explanation.

Five minutes later, Viviana posted again. This time, her caption read: [Soon, I'll have two strong men protecting me!]

And almost instantly, Dante liked the post.

My fingers went to the fine chain at my throat, pressing the warm metal into my skin until it hurt. Then I took off my wedding ring quietly. Without hesitation, I tossed it over the wrought-iron railing of the estate terrace, watching it disappear into the darkness of the hedgerow below. Then I turned and walked back toward the clinic to schedule an abortion.

That night, for once, Dante came home before nine. I heard the front gate buzz, heard the soldiers' low voices acknowledge him, heard his shoes cross the marble foyer the way they always did, each step carrying the weight of a man who owned every room he entered.

He noticed the fertility medications I had thrown into the trash. His brows furrowed as he glanced at them, then at me. "Throwing a tantrum over something so small?"

I kept my voice calm and steady. "I'm not angry."

He let out a mocking laugh, clearly unconvinced. "You threw away your fertility meds, and you're telling me you're not mad?"

"Do whatever you want," he added carelessly. "But don't forget, you're the desperate one here, not me."

I was just about to take out my pregnancy report, to show him the truth he refused to see, when he handed me a dark shoebox.

"This is from Viv," he said casually. "She's young, she doesn't know better. She got scared when she saw you upset and said something stupid about abortion."

"She wanted to send you something as an apology."

He opened the box for me. Inside was a pair of YSL heels.

But it only took one glance for me to realize the truth. These were clearly Viviana's old shoes. The soles were worn down, and the paint on the heels was chipped in several places.

"Take them," Dante said. "They weren't cheap, and she barely wore them."

"She's only been around a short time, she doesn't have much money. Giving these to you really hurt her."

I let out a dry, humorless laugh.

Just thirty minutes before he got home, Viviana had posted another update. She was showing off a brand-new pair of Chanel sandals, smiling brightly.

The caption read: "To the best boss in the world! Thanks for your obvious favoritism—it gives me the confidence to show off!"

When I didn't reach out to take the shoes, Dante's expression darkened immediately. The room seemed to lose a degree of warmth. Even the distant sound of the soldiers murmuring outside the study went quiet, as if the house itself had learned to read his moods.

"Serena, what's your problem?" he snapped. "You're almost thirty, and you're still making things difficult for a young girl? Is this really necessary?"