Matteo Bellandi Buried the Wrong Woman

Matteo's expression turned to stone. He caught my arm and dragged me into the corridor before I could say another word.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he asked. "Coming in here and talking about my child?"

"Your child?" I yanked my arm free. "You promised Leo would be your only heir. The Bellandi name, your seat, the business - all of it was supposed to go to him."

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Leo is my son. So is the baby Sofia is carrying, if it's a boy. If it's a girl, she's still mine. What exactly are you trying to argue?"

"You really think that ends well?" I asked. "Today it's me you're pushing aside for Sofia. Tomorrow it will be Leo paying the price for that baby. Tell her to end it now."

The slap landed so hard my head snapped to the side.

When I looked back at him, Matteo's face was cold and unfamiliar. "No one speaks about her that way," he said. "No one speaks about my child that way."

I pressed my hand to my cheek and stared at him.

This was the man who had once stayed awake through thirty hours of labor with me and looked more terrified than I was. Now he had hit me for another woman.

"Matteo," I said quietly. "It's my birthday too. You said you'd give me anything I wanted."

His eyes flashed with disgust. "All I know is that today is Sofia's birthday. I don't have time for your drama, Elena. Get out. You're the last person I want to see."

The door behind him opened.

Leo stood there with his father's expression on his face. "Go away!" he shouted. "Nobody wants you here!"

I looked at the two of them - the man I had loved half my life and the child I had nearly died bringing into it - and found that something inside me had finally gone still.

"Fine," I said. Then I smiled at Matteo, and there was nothing soft left in it. "Remember you said that."

I had meant to go straight to the airport after I left the clinic, but I had come to Malta in such a rush that all I had brought was my passport, my phone, and an overnight bag. My wallet and cards were still locked in the villa safe. By the time I reached the terminal, fever was crawling through me so hard I could barely stay upright.

I collapsed before I made it through security.

When I came to, I was on a narrow bed outside an emergency room. A nurse was holding my phone.

"The only emergency contact listed is your husband," she said. "He isn't answering."

The doctor beside her looked grim. "You have signs of severe myocarditis. You need to be admitted now. We need a deposit before we can move you upstairs."

That was when a young man on crutches stopped beside the bed and reached for his wallet.

"Use my card," he said. "Start treatment first."

His name was Ethan. He was studying abroad, recovering from a scooter accident, and had no reason to help me except that he could.

I spent the next several days in intensive care, alive by degrees.

When the worst of it passed, one of the nurses brought me my charged phone. There was only one message from Matteo.

Unless you're dying, don't contact me again.

I stared at it for a long time, then laughed. The cruel joke was that I really had almost died, and he still had not answered.

When Ethan came by to check on me, he caught that laugh and raised a brow. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," I said, turning the phone face down. "I just realized some men deserve to regret a woman for the rest of their lives."

Before Ethan flew home, he left the hospital receipts on my bedside table and told me not to worry about the difference.

After he left, I found the nurse who had taken the best care of me.

"I need a favor," I said. "Call this number and tell him his wife died in Malta."

It was a foreign country. The paperwork was messy, the clinic had already transferred me once, and the airport records were chaos after the storm. A lie like that only had to hold long enough.

By the time Matteo came looking, all he would find was a death notice, a name, and ashes.