I Left the Ring, the Divorce Papers, and Him Behind

After spraining my ankle, I took a cab to the private clinic alone.

The whole ride there, my ankle throbbed so badly that every tiny bump in the road sent pain shooting up my leg. I sat in the back seat, clutching the edge of my coat, staring blankly at the city lights sliding past the window. The driver kept glancing in the rearview mirror, probably wondering why a woman dressed for dinner at a Family estate was heading to a clinic on neutral ground without a single soldier beside her.

When I arrived, the nurse helped me onto a bed and asked, "Is your family here with you?"

For a moment, I opened my mouth out of habit.

"He's in a sit-down."

The excuse came so naturally that even I found it pathetic.

I had spent years defending Lorenzo DeLuca like that. Whenever he forgot me, ignored me, or chose someone else over me, I would always find a reason for him. He was handling Family business. He was tired. He had no choice. He didn't mean it.

But tonight, lying alone on a clinic bed with my swollen ankle propped up, I suddenly felt ridiculous.

So I looked away and changed my answer.

"Actually," I said quietly, "I'm a widow."

The nurse froze for a second, then her expression softened with sympathy.

I didn't explain.

In a way, it wasn't entirely a lie.

The Lorenzo who once loved me was already dead.

The treatment went smoothly. The doctor said it wasn't too serious, but I needed to rest and avoid putting weight on my ankle for a while.

There wasn't much physical pain after that.

But deep inside my chest, there was a hollow ache that kept spreading, as if something important had been carved out of me and left behind an empty, bleeding space.

I lay there in the sterile room, the smell of disinfectant thick in the air, and unlocked my phone.

The first thing I saw was an update from Vincent Caruso's private account.

Life's easy when there's no tigress around to keep watch. Lorenzo really has a soft spot for Adriana.

Attached to the post was a photo.

In it, Lorenzo was sitting beside a hospital bed, looking down at Adriana Bellini with an expression so gentle it almost hurt to see.

Adriana lay on the bed, pale and fragile, while Lorenzo leaned toward her slightly, his eyes full of concern.

Anyone who saw that photo would think they were a couple.

No.

Not just a couple.

They looked like two people who had always belonged together.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I gave the post a like.

Almost immediately, the post disappeared.

I let out a faint laugh.

So they had forgotten to block me.

A moment later, Lorenzo messaged me.

[Bianca, don't misunderstand. Adriana wasn't feeling well, so I just brought her to the hospital. Everyone else was there too.]

His explanation was careful.

Too careful.

I looked at the message and smiled calmly.

[Hope you're having a good time.]

The reply came almost instantly.

[Bianca, why aren't you checking on me?]

I stared at those words, and for some reason, I almost laughed again.

So this was what made him panic.

Not that I was hurt.

Not that I had gone to the clinic alone.

Not that I was pregnant and had waited for him all night.

What frightened him was that I had stopped questioning him.

Earlier that evening, I had rushed home to the estate for our anniversary.

I had prepared flowers, planned a surprise, and imagined that maybe, just maybe, Lorenzo would remember what day it was.

But when I hurried up the stairs, my foot slipped on the marble.

I fell hard.

Pain exploded through my ankle, sharp enough to make my vision blur.

Still, the first thing I did was not call for the Family driver.

I messaged Lorenzo.

I told him I had hurt my ankle and asked if he could come back after his business was done.

I waited with the flowers in my arms, foolishly hoping he would come back.

His reply was short and careless.

[There's a drinking party tonight. Just get whatever you want for dinner.]

Then, as if he already knew what I would ask, he added another message.

[No strangers. Just friends from back in the day.]

Friends from back in the day.

Those words felt like a bucket of ice water poured straight over my head.

I looked down at the flowers in my arms.

They suddenly seemed stupid.

So did I.

I threw them into the trash, called a cab, and went to the clinic by myself.

On the way back, I saw Lorenzo's familiar black sedan pass by outside the taxi window.