Chapter 4

Elara POV:

My first thought was, What is she doing here?

My second, which landed like a fist to my gut, was that she was pregnant. Not just a hint of a bump, but unmistakably, profoundly pregnant, her hands resting proprietorially on the swell of her stomach. She looked to be at least six months along.

The math clicked into place with a cold, horrifying speed. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that Marco had severe infertility issues. We had tried for years. The doctors had been clear. The child couldn't be his.

Sienna's lips curled into a smirk, a picture of smug triumph. "Surprise," she said, her voice a silken thread of venom. "I'm six months along. It's a boy."

Just then, Nonna Vitiello swept into the room, her face alight with a joy I had never seen directed at me. "Sienna, my dear!"

She rushed to Sienna's side, ignoring me completely. She took Sienna's hand and slid a priceless emerald bracelet from her own wrist onto Sienna's. It was the Vitiello family heirloom, passed down for generations. A symbol of acceptance. A crown for the new queen.

"You will call me Nonna," she cooed, stroking Sienna's hair.

Marco appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed as his gaze darted from his mother, to Sienna, and finally, to me. "Mama? What is this? Elara is my wife."

Nonna turned on me, her face contorting with years of pent-up resentment. "This barren hen?" she spat, her voice echoing in the small room. "She has given you nothing! You will divorce her. This girl is giving you a son! An heir!"

I stared at Marco, searching his eyes. Was this his plan all along? To trap me, to humiliate me into leaving?

He looked pathetic, cornered. "Elara, I'm sorry," he stammered, rushing to my side. "I was drunk. I... I thought she was you. I don't want a divorce. I swear."

The lie was so transparent, so insulting, it created a vacuum in my chest, sucking the air from my lungs. My trump card, the tiny life growing inside me, was suddenly worthless. He had his heir, or so he thought. My loyalty, our history, it meant nothing against this lie.

I shoved him away from me, my palm flat against his chest, a barrier of finality.

"You broke your oath, Marco," I said, my voice low and steady-a blade in the suffocating silence. "Don't blame me for the war that's coming."

I turned and walked out, my back straight, my head held high. I didn't look back. I walked through the throngs of laughing guests, a ghost at my own party, out into the cool night air, and pulled out my phone. I dialed Dante Moretti's number.

The car he sent was black and silent. In the back, I bit my tongue until I tasted the metallic tang of blood. It was the only way to keep from screaming. The memories of my life with Marco, once a warm fire, were now just a pile of cold, gray ash.

When I finally met Dante at another one of his silent, empty restaurants, my first question wasn't about our deal or the hydrogen portfolio.

I looked him dead in the eye. "Who is the real father of Sienna's child?"