I Married The Villain To Destroy You

The clinic walls were a blinding, sterile white.

The room smelled of antiseptic and suffocating silence.

I stared at the ceiling tiles, tracing the cracks with my eyes.

I felt empty.

Hollowed out. Scraped clean.

The doctor's words from an hour ago still echoed in the cavern of my mind.

Complete miscarriage. Trauma-induced.

The child Marco had begged for-the child I had prayed for-was gone.

And Marco didn't even know it had ever existed.

The door creaked open.

Dante stepped inside.

Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. He had traded his racing gear for a sharp black suit, but the shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.

He pulled a chair close to the bedside and sank into it.

He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't insult me with a hollow "I'm sorry for your loss."

He just looked at me.

"I know the feeling," he said softly, his voice rough.

I turned my head on the pillow to look at him.

"What feeling?"

"The feeling of having your future ripped out of your chest."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

"My mother didn't die of cancer, Elara. She was murdered."

I blinked, the numbness momentarily piercing.

Everyone knew Livia Moretti had died of a long, tragic illness. It was the official story. The only story.

"Isabella Bellucci," he said, the name dripping with venom like acid. "My stepmother. She didn't nurse her; she poisoned her. Slowly. Over two years. I watched my mother wither away, thinking it was sickness. I was eighteen when I found the vials hidden in her vanity."

His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

"Why didn't you kill her?" I asked, my voice a raspy whisper.

"Because death is too easy," Dante said, his expression hardening into stone. "I want to strip her of everything first. Her power. Her influence. Her allies. I played the fool for ten years, Elara. I let them think I was a reckless playboy so they wouldn't see the knife coming until it was buried in their throats."

He held my gaze.

"We are the same, you and I. We have both been betrayed by the people who were supposed to protect us."

He reached out and took my hand.

His grip was warm.

Solid.

"Join me, Elara. Not as a pawn. As a partner. Help me destroy Isabella, and I will give you Marco's head on a silver platter."

I looked down at our joined hands.

I felt the cold rage in my chest begin to solidify.

It hardened into something sharp.

Something useful.

I squeezed his hand back.

"Deal."

Three months later.

The boardroom of the Fuco Group was freezing.

I had kept the thermostat low on purpose. A calculated discomfort.

Marco sat across from me, sweating despite the chill.

His lawyers were shuffling papers nervously, unable to meet my eyes.

"Just sign the papers, Marco," I said, my voice flat. "I'm tired of looking at you."

Marco glared at me, his face flushed.

"You're taking the real estate portfolio. You're taking the logistics arm. You're bleeding me dry, Elara."

"I'm taking what I built," I corrected him, slicing through his self-pity.

I slid the final addendum across the polished mahogany table.

"I'll compromise. You keep the import business. I take the Hydrogen Energy division."

Marco laughed.

A short, barking sound of disbelief.

"The Hydrogen division? That money pit? It hasn't turned a profit in five years. You want that garbage? Fine. Take it."

He grabbed the pen, eager to offload the burden.

He didn't know.

He didn't know that I had just secured a government contract that would triple the value of that division overnight.

He signed his name.

Marco Vitiello.

With a flourish.

He thought he had won.

He thought he had dumped a dead asset on a bitter ex-wife.

I signed my name.

Elara Marino.

I stood up, smoothing my skirt.

Leo, my assistant, efficiently packed the documents into his briefcase.

"Goodbye, Marco," I said.

I walked toward the heavy double doors.

"Wait," Marco called out.

I stopped, but I didn't turn around.

"Sienna is due in two months," he said, his voice thick with arrogance, trying to land one last blow. "We're naming him Santino. After my father."

I smiled.

A cold, razor-thin smile that he couldn't see.

"I hope he has your eyes, Marco. Because he certainly doesn't have your blood."

I pushed the door open.

"Oh, and Marco?"

He looked up, confusion marring his features.

"I left a birthday gift on your desk. Since I won't be around to celebrate."

I walked out.

I didn't look back.

I had an empire to build.