#Chapter Two

The bridal shop called while I stood in my closet, staring into nothing.

A few of Silvio's shirts still hung there. The air still held traces of his cedar-scented aftershave. It used to make me feel safe.

Now it was nothing but cold, bitter mockery.

“Mrs. Armstrong? Your wedding dress and suit alterations are finished. Could you come in today for the final fitting?”

The boutique on the Gold Coast looked the same as ever—soft lighting, sweet voices. The associate led me into a private fitting room. The satin mermaid gown was white as a lie.

I used to imagine a hundred times what Silvio's eyes would look like when he saw me walk toward him in it.

Now there was only emptiness.

“Ma'am, right this way.” The associate reminded me gently.

I drifted toward the photo area.

Passing the haute couture section, my feet nailed themselves to the floor.

“Dominic.”

He stood there—profile lines I could trace with my eyes closed.

And tucked against him was Lillian, my widowed sister-in-law, in a perfectly tailored beige suit. She was a little pale, yes—but she did not look anything like someone “with days to live.”

A saleswoman was recommending a shawl. Silvio—because that's who he was, even if he could only be Dominic in public—had his head bowed, listening intently, fingers absentmindedly stroking the fabric.

His expression held Dominic's seriousness.

But there was something else in it too—an all-in, focused gentleness I didn't recognize. Not like this.

“Mr. Armstrong, this cool gray would suit Ms. Lillian beautifully. It really brings out her elegance.”

Silvio took it, rubbing the material between his fingers. “Mm. This one. She's been especially sensitive to cold lately.” His tone was effortless, as natural as breathing. His arm settled around Lillian's shoulders like it belonged there.

“Should we update the sizing?”

“Yes. Her body…” Silvio's voice dropped. “Take it in one size. And—” He paused, then lifted his eyes.

The look in them was something I had never once seen him give me: a concentrated tenderness that bordered on pain.

“Stitch the softest cashmere lining inside. Her skin can't handle rough fabric.”

“You're so attentive to your wife,” the saleswoman praised, genuinely impressed.

“She's my wife,” he said, without hesitation. “Of course I should be.”

My wife.

Every word was an ice pick, hammered into my chest.

I was still learning how to breathe through the pain of “his death,” still fighting to keep our baby alive.

And he—wearing someone else's name—could already be this practiced, this fluent, this “gentle” with another woman.

So what was I?

What was this child?

In the mirror, my face had gone bloodless. I gripped the heavy skirt of the wedding dress until my knuckles turned white. A despair deeper than the day I got the phone call rose slowly, steadily, until it swallowed my head.

“Ah—Annabella?” Lillian's voice sounded, a hint of surprise.

She'd seen me. Her gaze paused briefly on my wedding gown. Something unreadable flashed there—then it smoothed into pity.

“You're here too…?” she asked softly, walking toward me.

Silvio's body stiffened—so slightly most people wouldn't catch it—then he turned.

For a split second, panic flickered in his eyes.

Then Dominic's calm slid into place, as if I were only a sister-in-law he owed polite words.

“I…” My voice scraped dry. “Just here to confirm the alterations.”

Lillian came close and lightly took my hand. Her fingers were warm; mine were ice.

“Poor Annabella,” she sighed, eyes full of sympathy. “Coming alone… ah.” She stopped at exactly the right moment, as if she couldn't bear to mention my bereavement.

“You have to take care of yourself. Come by the house for dinner sometime. Don't just stay alone and shut in.”

I didn't answer.

I only looked at Silvio.

And watched him avoid my eyes.

Lillian seemed to notice where my gaze kept landing. She let out a small laugh, lowered her voice—but not low enough.

“Looks just like him, doesn't it? That face…” She patted the back of my hand, gentle as snow. “Take a good look. After this… you might not get many chances.”

Might not get many chances?

What did that mean?

A cold edge slid into her tone. Instinctively, I yanked my hand away and stumbled back a step.

Lillian tipped sideways—like I'd shoved her—leaning toward Silvio.

“Lillian!”

Silvio stepped in instantly, catching her, shielding her with his whole body like a reflex. When he looked at me, there was no concern—only disapproval, as if my instability had disturbed someone fragile.

“I'm fine,” Lillian said, nestled into his arm, her voice sweet and reproachful. “It's your fault. This face… it made Annabella unhappy.”

Then, coquettish as a sigh: “Dominic, let's go. Give Annabella a moment to calm down.”

Silvio frowned. His eyes flicked to me—complex, unreadable.

In the end, he only tightened the hand holding Lillian and said quietly, “Let's go.”

They left together.

Silvio didn't look back once.

He wasn't dead.

But whatever love he'd had for me—felt like it was.

I stood there in that ridiculous gown no one was meant to admire, until the associate finally ventured, carefully, “Ma'am… are you all right?”

Cold liquid slid down my cheeks.

I wiped it away, turned, and walked back into the fitting room like a soldier dragging herself off the field after a total defeat.

“Ma'am, shall we still do the photos?” the photographer asked.

I tugged my mouth into something that wasn't a smile. “No. Put the dress away.”

On the drive home, Chicago's sky turned heavy and dark, rain starting to drift down. I was eerily calm.

When I got home, I went straight to the study and dragged out the box stuffed with wedding preparations: invitations, honeymoon plans, thick stacks of the stupid-sweet cards we'd written to each other.

I sat on the floor and tore them—one by one—into confetti.

Pale paper snow covered my legs, my hands, the space around me.

On the calendar, the anniversary date I'd once marked in careful gold now got a huge X across it.

Beside it, I wrote two cold words:

THE END.

That night, I called Uncle Jirei.

“The route and identity are set,” he said, steady, reliable. “You just need to appear on the terrace, create the moment of a ‘fall.' My people will clean the rest.”

“Okay.” I paused. My voice didn't change. “Also—help me book a clinic. The timing… one week before the anniversary.”

Silence on the other end for a beat.

“Bella…” There was a rare tightness in Jirei's voice.

“I've decided, Uncle.” I cut him off, flat and final. “This child shouldn't come into a world soaked through with lies and betrayal. And it shouldn't be—” My throat clenched, but my voice stayed hard. “—the last pathetic thread tying me to that past.”

“Let it all end completely.”