I Left the Mafia King, Now He Regrets It

Elaris’s Pov

“Draven—” I tried to speak, but Nyra’s loud sobs sliced straight through my words.

“Draven, please don’t blame Seraphina,” she cried. “You told me to wake her, and she got angry and shoved me.”

My eyes widened.

I was crumpled on the far side of the room, one arm wrapped around my lower stomach, barely able to breathe through the pain tearing through me.

“That’s not true,” I gasped. “She pushed me, Draven!”

Draven let out a cold scoff while Nyra trembled in his arms like some delicate, injured thing.

“You expect me to believe a pregnant woman shoved you?” he said. “Why are you always so vicious toward Nyra? Why do you keep playing these ugly games?”

“It hurts, Draven,” Nyra whimpered, clutching her stomach. “Please don’t blame Seraphina. I’m sure she’s only upset because she had to sleep in the guest suite. If I were in her place, I’d be upset too.”

Draven’s face hardened as he looked at me.

“How heartless can you be, Seraphina?”

Tears spilled down my cheeks as the pain in my abdomen worsened.

“I swear I didn’t touch her,” I cried. “She pushed me, Draven. I’m bleeding. Why won’t you believe me? I’m your wife!”

“Draven,” Nyra whimpered again, pressing her hand more tightly over her belly. “It hurts.”

At once, Draven bent and lifted her into his arms.

“You want the room, Seraphina?” he said without even looking at me. “Fine. Keep the whole estate. I’ll have another place prepared for Nyra, and I’ll stay with her until she gives birth. Pray nothing happens to her.”

My breath caught.

“No, Draven, please,” I begged. “Help me—”

“Deal with it yourself,” he snapped.

Then he turned and walked out with Nyra in his arms.

As they passed through the doorway, Nyra looked over Draven’s shoulder and gave me a slow, smug smile.

Her lips moved silently.

He’s mine.

Then they were gone.

I didn’t know how long I stayed there on the floor.

Bleeding.

Crying.

Realizing, little by little, that Draven hadn’t come back because he simply didn’t care enough to.

Three years of marriage, and he still didn’t trust me.

All it had taken was the return of his first love for every promise, every tenderness, every scrap of devotion he had once given me to vanish like smoke.

By the time the pain eased enough for me to move, I had nothing left in me except one last humiliating thread of hope.

I dragged myself to the bedside table, grabbed my phone, and tried to call Draven.

It rang once.

Then the line died.

Blocked.

I tried again.

And again.

Seven times I called him, and seven times he shut me out.

At last, trembling and half-blind with pain, I reached for the emergency line connected to the Greymark medical network, the one reserved for shootings, stabbings, and family emergencies.

By the time the medical team arrived, dark spots were already swimming across my vision.

Hands lifted me.

Voices blurred.

The room tilted.

Then everything went black.

---

“How do you feel, Mrs. Greymark?”

The voice pulled me slowly out of the dark.

I blinked, and the room finally came into focus.

White walls.

The bitter scent of antiseptic.

The soft beeping of the monitor beside the bed.

It was the same doctor from before.

My ears rang.

“Doctor,” I croaked, my throat raw, “what happened?”

“That’s what we were hoping you would tell us,” he said, frowning slightly.

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to push myself up.

The instant I moved, pain ripped through my body, and I cried out.

“Easy,” he said quickly. “You’ve only just woken up from surgery.”

I stared at him. “Surgery? What happened?”

“You were brought in with severe internal damage,” he said carefully. “The bleeding wouldn’t stop. You had already lost a dangerous amount of blood, and we had to operate immediately. We reached your husband through his private line. He told us to do whatever was necessary.”

At the mention of Draven, bile rose in my throat.

I swallowed it down and said nothing.

The doctor hesitated before continuing.

“After the operation, you slipped into a coma. We kept trying to contact your husband through his office, his security team, and the family channels after he stopped taking our calls. He told us not to disturb him. He said you were pretending.” His mouth tightened. “You were in a coma for one full week, Mrs. Greymark. Your husband never came. Not once.”

A bitter smile touched my lips.

“So I’m alive?” I asked quietly.

The doctor sighed. “For now, yes. But we still need to monitor you closely, and there’s something important I need to tell you.”

I nodded once, though my heart already felt as if it were being crushed in a fist.

As I had lain on that floor in my own blood, I had already known, deep down, that if help didn’t come, Draven would leave me there to die.

But hearing the doctor confirm that he had ignored me for an entire week made the truth colder.

Final.

The doctor studied me for a moment before asking, “Seraphina... are you safe in your own home? Does your husband hurt you? Do you need help?”

A dry laugh escaped me.

“Only a lawyer.”

He nodded solemnly.

“I’ll arrange it,” he said. Then his face grew graver. “But you need to understand something. During surgery, we had no choice but to remove both of your fallopian tubes. The bleeding would not stop. If we had waited any longer, you would have died.”

For a moment, I could only stare at him.

My pulse began to race.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

He looked at me with open regret.

“If you had been brought in sooner, we might have avoided it. But as it is...” He paused. “The loss of both tubes makes conception far less likely. It’s possible... you may never be able to carry a child again.”

The room spun.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

“First my baby,” I whispered. “And now this.”

“You’re not completely without hope, Mrs. Greymark—”

“Seraphina,” I cut in sharply. “My name is Seraphina. Not Mrs. Greymark.”

Silence fell for a beat.

Then I said, colder, “Get me a damned lawyer.”

For the rest of my stay in the hospital, I tried not to think about his words.

I focused on healing instead.

On eating when they told me to eat.

Sleeping when they forced me to rest.

Walking when my body screamed at me not to.

Draven never called.

He never came.

Not once.

By the day I was finally discharged, the lawyer the doctor had arranged stood beside my bed, papers in hand and sympathy in her eyes.

“So once you leave, I’ll have these delivered to your husband’s office?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes. And make sure he signs them.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure this is what you want, Seraphina?”

A cold laugh escaped me.

“To divorce the bastard who made me lose my baby and left me bleeding on the floor?” I said. “Yes. I’m sure.”

The lawyer nodded slowly.

“What will you do now?”

I looked toward the window.

“What I should have done three years ago.”

“Take care of yourself, Seraphina,” she said softly before leaving.

A little while later, the doctor returned.

“I take it you’ve finished with the lawyer?”

I nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. I won’t forget what you did for me.”

He studied me for a long moment, then gave me a faint smile.

“Don’t give up all hope, Seraphina. Medicine has changed a great deal. Miracles happen.”

I looked away. “Thank you. Please call me a car to the airfield.”

He nodded and left.

A moment later, my phone lit up with an unfamiliar number.

Unknown.

I accepted the call and listened in silence.

“Yes,” I said at last. “I’ve been discharged. I’m coming home today.”

I ended the call and looked slowly around the room.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of pain, grief, and healing.

Three weeks to finally accept what I had refused to see for far too long.

Draven had chosen Nyra.

Not once.

Not by accident.

Not in confusion.

He had chosen her again and again while I bled.

I rose from the bed, slower than I once would have been, but steadier too.

For the first time in three years, I felt something close to freedom.

I walked out of the hospital and toward the waiting car that would take me to the airfield—far away from Draven, far away from Nyra, far away from the life they had poisoned.

They had changed me.

They had taught me exactly what love without dignity costs.

Now it was my turn.

And this time, they would pay for every piece of me they had destroyed.