He Chose The Mistress, I Chose Freedom

The emptiness inside me wasn't weightless; it was heavy, as if I had swallowed a rough-hewn stone.

I walked out of the clinic feeling utterly hollowed out.

My womb was empty.

My heart was empty.

Even my veins felt like they were carrying dry dust instead of blood.

I should have gone home to rest. The doctor had been clear about that.

But the house wasn't home anymore.

It was just a monument to a dead marriage.

Driven by a masochistic need for closure, I found myself wandering the corridors of the private hospital wing where Dante kept his "priority."

I needed to see it.

I needed to see what he had traded his son for.

I turned the corner and stopped dead.

Dante stood outside a private suite.

He looked tired, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink of the tattoos on his forearms.

He was leaning against the wall, listening intently to a doctor.

And then Sofia emerged from the room.

She wasn't just walking; she was performing.

She placed a hand on her lower back and grimaced, a theatrical display of fragility.

Dante immediately straightened.

He reached out, his big hands surprisingly gentle, and guided her to a chair.

He touched her baby bump.

It was a casual, possessive touch.

The kind of touch he used to give me.

Nausea rose in my throat, bitter and acidic.

Dante looked up and locked eyes with me.

His expression hardened instantly.

"Elena," he said, his voice a low warning. "What are you doing here?"

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He didn't notice the ghostly pallor of my skin or the way I was leaning against the wall for support.

He just saw a threat to Sofia.

Sofia's eyes widened, and she let out a little gasp.

"Oh, Elena! I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were coming."

She stood up, wincing for effect, and walked over to me.

She linked her arm through mine, her grip surprisingly tight.

"Isn't it a blessing?" she cooed, looking down at her stomach. "A little Moretti. I know it must be hard for you, being... well, unable to fulfill that role."

She twisted the knife with a smile.

I looked at Dante, waiting for him to correct her.

Waiting for him to defend me.

He just checked his watch.

"Elena knows her duty," he said coldly. "She isn't petty enough to let family business affect her manners."

Family business.

That was how he filed away my trauma. Just business.

"We're going to dinner," Sofia announced. "You must come, Elena. We need to show a united front, don't we, Dante?"

"I'm not feeling well," I said, my voice raspy.

"Nonsense," Dante said. "You look fine. Just a bit pale. Put on some lipstick. We're going to Lucca's."

It wasn't a request.

It was an order from the Don.

I was too weak to fight.

At the restaurant, they sat together on the banquette.

I sat opposite them, like an unwanted child.

Sofia made a scene about her risotto being too salty.

Dante snapped his fingers, and the entire kitchen staff came out to apologize.

He tasted her food for her.

He poured her water.

He didn't look at me once.

I stared at my plate, the rich, cloying smell of truffle oil making my stomach turn.

I was bleeding.

I could feel it.

The doctor had said to rest.

But here I was, playing the dutiful wife to a man who was fathering a lie.

"I need to use the restroom," I murmured, standing up.

My legs felt like jelly.

As I walked past their table, a low rumble shook the ceiling.

It happened in slow motion.

The heavy crystal chandelier above their table groaned.

The anchor gave way.

"Dante!" Sofia screamed.

She didn't try to move. She just threw herself toward him.

Dante didn't hesitate.

He lunged.

He scooped Sofia up in his arms, shielding her body with his own, and dove to the side.

In his desperate haste to save her, his shoulder slammed into me.

I went flying.

I hit the marble floor with a sickening crack.

My head bounced against the stone.

The chandelier crashed down exactly where I had been standing a second ago.

Glass shards exploded like shrapnel.

Dust and plaster filled the air.

My ears were ringing.

I touched my forehead, and my hand came away red.

Through the haze, I saw Dante standing up.

He was holding Sofia.

"Is the baby okay?" he was shouting. "Check the baby!"

Sofia was sobbing hysterically, clutching him.

He didn't look at the floor.

He didn't look for me.

"Get the car!" he roared at his security detail. "We're going to the hospital!"

He carried her out, stepping over the debris.

Stepping over me.

I lay on the cold floor, watching his retreating back.

The blood from my head wound pooled on the white marble, mixing with the dust.

I was alone.

Again.