The Shattered Hand

The next morning, paparazzi swarmed the mansion like vultures.

"Isabella! Give us a comment!"

"How is your mental state?"

Camera lenses were aimed at every window.

I hid behind the curtains, a prisoner in my own home.

Vincent returned, pushing through the media circus. "Mr. Torrino! How is your wife?"

"She's resting," Vincent said, his face a stone mask. "We ask for privacy."

Just then, a figure stumbled toward him.

It was Sophia, a perfect actress.

She fell to her knees, clinging to his legs.

"Vincent, I can't take it anymore!" she wailed for the cameras. "They're calling me a homewrecker, a thief! I'm so worried the stress will harm our baby!"

Vincent immediately bent down, helping her up.

"It's okay, it'll all be over soon," he said, holding her tenderly. "I won't let anyone hurt you or our child."

The cameras flashed, capturing the perfect image: the powerful Don protecting the innocent, slandered artist.

And me, the real victim, locked away like a lunatic.

They passed my room on the way inside.

"Is Isabella in there?" Sophia asked softly.

"Don't worry about her," Vincent said coldly. "She can't hurt you anymore."

I leaned against the door, silent tears finally streaming down my face.

In his mind, I was the monster.

I went back into my room and began to pack.

The wedding photos, I ripped to shreds.

My art prints, I burned in the fireplace.

The jewelry he gave me, I left in a box on his pillow.

At 3 a.m., my burner phone vibrated.

An anonymous text:

[St. Mary's Hospital, underground parking, level B2. 3 p.m. tomorrow. ID ready. The plan is a go.]

I deleted the message.

Isabella Torrino was about to die.

The next morning, a soft knock came at my door.

"Isabella? Can I come in?"

It was Sophia.

I sat up, wary. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk." She pushed the door open, holding a glass of milk. "I warmed this for you. It's good for the baby."

Her performance only sharpened my unease. "Just say it."

"I wanted to apologize," Sophia said, her eyes welling with crocodile tears. "I know I've done wrong. Vincent is your husband. I'm going to leave... go to Europe. I hope we can make peace."

She offered the glass. "Here. I added honey. For you and the baby."

I looked at her, at the sincere mask she wore.

For a foolish second, I almost believed her.

I took the glass and took a sip.

A wave of heavy drowsiness hit me almost instantly.

"Sophia, if you really want to leave..."

"Oh, I will," her smile turned sharp and cruel. "But I don't think you'll be around to see me go."

My head spun.

A brutal cramp seized my stomach.

"What... what did you do?"

"Just a little something," she whispered, leaning in. "Enough to make you and your little problem disappear."

I tried to stand, to scream, but my legs buckled.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen.

"Help... me..."

"No one's coming," Sophia said coldly, watching me writhe. "Vincent's out. I gave the staff the day off."

The pain was blinding.

Blood began to soak through my nightgown.

My baby...

"Why..." I sobbed.

"Because when you're dead, Vincent will only have me," she said, standing over me. "And your bastard will die with you."