The Day I Died, He Lost Our Twins

When I returned to the villa, Vincent was already home.

He strode toward me, his voice thick with worry.

“Where were you? You weren’t answering your phone, you shook your security detail. I had half the crew out looking for you. I’m sorry, there was an emergency with the family......”

I turned my head slightly, pretending not to see the fresh hickey peeking out from the unbuttoned collar of his tailored dress shirt.

“Just went for a walk. Felt trapped in these four walls.”

He exhaled in relief, gesturing to the spread of pastries on the table. It were my favorites, from the patisserie right next to Seraphina Private Hospital, the only place in the city that made them exactly how I liked them.

“It’s my fault. I should’ve been here with you. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Once, I would have taken this as irrefutable proof of his love.

The truth was, he’d just left Isabella’s arms at that very hospital. This was his guilty penance, a half-hearted offering for the sin he’d just committed.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Another text from Isabella.

[Don’t think sitting on the Donna’s throne means you’ve won, she purred in the message. I’m the one he wants to wake up to every morning.]

I didn’t care about her petty games.

I only found the man before me utterly unfathomable.

He would spiral into a blind panic if I didn’t reply to his texts within minutes, yet while I carried his heirs and suffered through the agony of early pregnancy, he sought solace in another woman’s bed.

He’d even built her a goddamn hospital.

When I stayed silent, Vincent grew anxious, reaching for my hand.

“Baby, did I upset you? Hit me, yell at me, whatever you need to get it out. Just don’t bottle it up. You’ll hurt yourself, and the babies...”

His palm burned hot against mine, but all I felt was a violent wave of nausea.

I wrenched my hand away and doubled over, retching violently.

I knew he had a severe, almost pathological hatred of mess, yet he didn’t hesitate for a second, stepping right behind me to hold my hair back.

Thankfully, I’d barely eaten in days; nothing came up but bitter bile that stung my throat and brought stinging tears to my eyes.

He swept me up into his arms, carrying me up the grand staircase and laying me gently on our bed with infinite care.

I believed his concern in that moment was real.

But so was his betrayal.

That night, my steward sent me a secure message. He’d finalized every detail with the professor, secured my new identity, and prepared every element of my staged death: the registered vehicle, pre-prepared DNA samples, the extraction route, the boat waiting on the Hudson. All was in place.