The Don's Wife's Sweetest Revenge

Isabella POV:

His brow furrowed in that way that used to seem endearing, a sign of his focus on me. Now it just looked like a shallow performance of concern.

"I know," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "Maybe it was a bad batch."

"We should take that trip I promised you," he said, trying to placate me, to smooth over this tiny ripple in his perfect domestic sea. "A week in Santorini. Just the two of us. Away from all this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing his business, his empire, the crushing weight of being Don Giovanni Moretti.

"That sounds nice," I said. It was a lie, but my life was becoming a tapestry of them.

"I'll have Sofia arrange everything," he added, and the casual way her name left his lips was another small, sharp sting.

"Perfect," I said. "I have a gift for you, too. For our anniversary. I'll give it to you when we get back." The small pouch with the melted gold felt heavy in my memory.

He smiled, satisfied that the problem was solved. "You didn't forget, then."

"Forget what?" I asked, genuinely confused.

His smile faltered. "Our anniversary, Bella."

"Of course not," I said, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. I had been so consumed by the betrayal, the actual date had become meaningless.

He leaned in to kiss me, but I turned my head, offering my cheek. He paused, a flicker of irritation in his eyes, before pressing a dry kiss there. The scent of her was stronger up close. I felt my skin crawl.

This was all a stage play now. I was an actress in the final scenes of a tragedy, and only I knew how the curtain would fall.

I went into the bathroom and saw it on the counter, next to his shaving cream. A single, long dark hair that was not mine. It was a ghost, a remnant of her presence in our home, in our life. My first instinct was to flush it, to erase it. But I didn't.

Arguing with a ghost was pointless. My war wasn't with her. It was with him.

The next morning, Gio dressed for work, his movements crisp and efficient. "I have an early meeting across town," he said, adjusting his tie. "A potential issue with one of our shipping warehouses. I might be late."

It was such a transparent lie. The Moretti Family didn't have "potential issues." They created them for other people.

"Be safe," I said.

The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I went to his study. He kept a second phone, a burner, in the false bottom of his humidor. He thought I didn't know. He thought I was just a pretty ornament. He had grossly underestimated me.

I powered it on. The screen lit up with a string of messages.

Sofia: Last night was amazing.

Sofia: I can't wait until you leave her.

Sofia: Did you tell her about the baby yet?

The words blurred. A baby. My stomach twisted into a knot so tight I thought I would be sick. I leaned over his mahogany desk, my hands braced against the cool wood, and took deep, shuddering breaths. The air tasted bitter. It was the taste of fifteen years of my life turning to dust.

He came home that evening looking pleased with himself, like a man who had successfully put out a fire. My fire. The fire that was consuming me from the inside out.

"Everything handled at the warehouse?" I asked, my voice impossibly calm.

"Of course," he said, draping his jacket over a chair. "Nothing I can't handle."

I fought to keep my face a serene mask, but my body betrayed me. A tremor started in my hands, a violent, uncontrollable shaking. I gripped the kitchen counter, my knuckles turning white.

He noticed. "Bella? Are you alright? Is it the seafood again?" He put his hand on my arm, his touch a brand of hypocrisy.

The shaking wouldn't stop. It wasn't sadness. It was the last of Isabella Moretti being violently expelled from my body.