He Died for Her and Made Me Mourn a Lie

Dominic froze for half a beat. Then let out a soft, fake laugh… the kind that used to charm me back in college.

He reached out and patted my head gently—like I was a child who just had a nightmare.

"You're overthinking again," he said, voice calm, practiced. "How could I be Dominic? You've just been too tense lately. Drink the milk and get some sleep, alright?"

He took a step back, like he was giving me space, but his words landed like bullets.

"That little one in your belly… he's the last blood of Dominic Santoro in this world. I'll make damn sure he arrives safely. That's a promise."

I didn't respond.

I kept my eyes low.

I couldn't stand to see that face anymore, that lie wearing skin I used to love.

"You should go," I said quietly. "I'm tired. I just want to lie down."

That's when I heard her.

"Babe?"

The door across the hall cracked open, and there she was.

Ginevra. Wearing my robe. The ivory silk one Dominic gave me on our anniversary last year, the one monogrammed with a little embroidered S at the hem.

She wasn't even trying to hide it.

"I'm having a really bad headache," she murmured. "Can you come to bed? I need one of your massages… the kind that makes me forget I'm dying."

Silence sliced the air.

Dominic turned halfway, caught between both women, his living wife and his grieving one.

He glanced back at me for a beat, his eyes unreadable.

Then he nodded. "Get some rest," he told me gently, before heading to Ginevra and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She leaned into him like she belonged there. Like I was the guest in my own room. Together, they disappeared down the hallway. And I just stood there, staring at the door long after it closed.

Not because I was shocked.

But because I wasn't.

I met Dominic Santoro seven years ago in Milan, at a private art auction hosted by one of the city's oldest families. I wasn't supposed to be there. I wasn't even supposed to look at a man like him.

But I did.

And the moment his eyes locked with mine, cold, calculating, curious, I knew I was already undone.

He didn't ask my name.

He asked who I belonged to.

And when I said no one, he smirked like I'd just offered him the world on a silver plate.

He pursued me like I was a vendetta he couldn't drop.

Sharp. Dangerous. Obsessively mine.

And I let him in. Holy Mary help me, I let all of him in.

Two years later, he proposed on the rooftop of the Santoro estate, just past midnight. The whole city stretched below us, quiet, lit, watching.

No crowd. No cameras. Just him.

He pulled out a ring wrapped in velvet and history, an heirloom, blood-soaked and priceless.

"Seraphina," he said, voice low, "if this world burns, I want to burn with you."

And I said yes.

He once told me, hand on my stomach, lips at my temple, eyes full of heat,

"This child came at the perfect time. He's our proof. Our gift. Our beginning. I've never been this happy, cara mia."

And now?

Now that same man faked his own death and left me at the altar like a pawn he outplayed.

For a woman with four months to live.

A woman who never once stood in the world we built.

I don't even know when I lost him.

All I know is, the man who once whispered that I was his fire, his home, his reason,

Now fakes his death and feeds me warm milk like it'll silence the war inside me.

The next morning… a knock came at the door.

"Seraphina," his voice called out, light but firm. "Time for your check-up. You ready?"

I was still lacing up my shoes, barely holding it together, when I heard footsteps pause outside my door.

Then,

"Alessio…" Her voice.

Ginevra.

Weak. Fragile. Measured, like a rehearsed line from a dying actress. I stood frozen as her footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

"I… I don't feel good…" she whispered, wobbling against the wall. "I think… something's wrong…"

And then, right on cue, her knees buckled.

"Whoa, whoa. Ginevra!"

Alessio, Dominic, turned instantly, catching her before she hit the floor. "Damn it, you didn't take your meds again, did you? Why are you even walking around?"

His arms wrapped around her carefully, cradling her like she was made of glass and moonlight.

From my cracked door, I watched him gently lower her onto the couch, tucking a blanket over her legs like it was instinct. His hand brushed her hair back from her face. His voice dropped to a murmur I wasn't supposed to hear.

"You can't scare me like that, babe."

And just like that I was invisible again.

I stepped into the hallway quietly. He looked up, startled for half a second, then caught himself.

"Sorry, Seraphina," he said, standing upright, his tone snapping back to efficient. "Ginevra's not doing well this morning. I don't want to leave her alone like this."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a phone. "You'll still go to your appointment. I'm sending Silvio and Beppe to accompany you. The driver's already out front, and your doctor's waiting."

It was all clean. Seamless. Controlled. Behind him, Ginevra didn't even try to hide the faint smile curving on her lips. Her fingertips drifted to her collarbone, resting there, light as a rosary touch.

She looked at me like a woman who'd won the final round. My hand drifted to my stomach on instinct. My chest was already burning, but the tears came anyway, silent, bitter, fast.

I sat alone on a cold bench in the corner of the Santoro private clinic, head down, fingers trembling as I studied the black-and-white ultrasound report.

There it was, an apple-sized flicker of life.

The doctor smiled earlier, pointing to the image like it was a miracle.

"That's your baby."

I wiped my tears roughly, as if smudging them away could erase what he did to me. I couldn't do it here. Not at this clinic.

Not under their watch.

This was Santoro territory. Eyes everywhere. Whatever happened here, Dominic would know.

I grabbed my phone and made a quiet call to the driver and the two soldiers.

"I'm feeling a little heavy," I lied. "I want to walk alone for a bit. You go on ahead. I'll call when I'm ready to go home."

They hesitated but didn't question.

They were all trained that way, loyal to the name Santoro, not the woman carrying the heir.

Once I saw the black car disappear past the gate, I stepped out from the shadows behind the column and hailed a taxi.

Destination? Another private hospital. One without Family ties. One where I could disappear if I had to.