Chapter3

Three days later, an anonymous email appeared in my inbox.

No signature, just a scanned hospital report.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.

Six weeks pregnant.

The timing fell around my son's death anniversary.

The attachment also included an audio recording.

Sofia's voice was clear and casual.

"The child might not even be his, but he'll definitely claim it."

My fingers froze.

"A man like him—as long as I say it's his, he'll take responsibility." She laughed. "He needs to be the good guy."

The recording ended.

I sat at the desk, spine straight, but my breathing slowed.

Six weeks.

Around the anniversary.

That day he'd said in the garage he would divorce.

That evening he'd lit up the entire mansion for me.

That day he'd held my hand, saying he would treat me well for the rest of his life.

I closed my eyes, flashing back to our son's funeral.

It had rained. I stood before the grave, my legs so weak I could barely stand. Matteo held me, his voice hoarse. "I failed to protect you both."

I'd cried so hard I couldn't speak.

Now, thinking back, I suddenly understood—that statement sounded like taking responsibility, but it was really a form of control.

He said the fault was his, so I gave him all my emotions.

He said he would be responsible, so I stayed by his side.

He always knew what to say.

I opened the email timeline and scrolled back.

The earliest record was from six months ago.

Sofia's social media check-ins overlapped with Matteo's schedule.

At least six months.

During those months, he'd sat with me in the therapist's office, listening to me describe dreams about our son. He'd pulled the covers over me at night. At family meetings, he'd said no one could question me.

I'd thought that was love.

Now I only saw a man comforting his wife while comforting his mistress.

I suddenly remembered our son's funeral.

It had rained. I stood before the casket, barely able to stand.

Matteo held me, his face pressed against my hair, saying, "I failed to protect you both."

I'd thought he was blaming himself.

Now I understood—he was skilled at making everything sound like taking responsibility.

It was a form of control.

Making people dependent, making people believe, making people hand over their pain to him.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

"The child might not even be his, but he'll definitely claim it."

The words echoed repeatedly in my head.

If he claimed it.

How would the family handle it?

The elders would demand I be magnanimous.

The media would demand I be dignified.

He would say it was just a mistake.

I would become the wife being urged to endure.

I picked up my phone and called the lawyer.

"I need to initiate a separation agreement," I said.

After a few seconds of silence: "Are you certain?"

"I'm certain."

"Is the evidence for the loyalty clause sufficient?"

"It's sufficient."

I hung up, my heartbeat still steady.

The examination report lay spread on the desk.

I opened another email—the preliminary plan from the lawyer.

During separation, I would retain current residence rights, freeze joint accounts, and initiate asset evaluation.

At the same time, I opened my computer to another page.

The New York long-term secure residence program application portal.

This was a link I'd saved long ago.

At the time, it was just a professional consideration.

Now, it had become an exit.

Educational background.

Professional credentials.

Risk assessment statement.

By the time I finished the last line, darkness had fallen outside the window.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Matteo was back.

I closed the laptop.

Seconds later, he pushed open the door.

"You've been in the study all day," he said.

"I had some documents to organize." I looked up at him.

He approached and stroked my hair. "Don't exhaust yourself."

I looked into his eyes.

His gaze was open.

As if nothing had happened.

"If one day I chose to leave here," I said softly, "what would you do?"

He frowned slightly. "You won't."

"Why not?"

"Because you belong to me."

The statement came too naturally.

I nodded without arguing.

He bent and kissed my forehead. "Get some rest."

He turned to leave.

The moment the door closed, my phone lit up.

A message from the lawyer.

"Separation agreement draft is ready."

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then replied.

"Submit it tomorrow."

On the other page, the New York application portal showed a notification.

Application materials received.

I stood and walked to the window.

The entire estate was quiet and magnificent.

This place had once been all my security.

Now, I just wanted to leave.

I said softly to myself.

"From now on, I live for myself."