Chapter 2

I wiped away the last tear, erased every trace of my breakdown, grabbed my documents, and went straight to the Cook County Clerk’s Office.

In our world, divorce is never a simple matter. A union between two great families means a reshuffling of the power map—and countless enemies lurking in the shadows, waiting to watch us fall.

But I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to end this farce.

When I slid the marriage certificate across the counter, however, the clerk—a woman in reading glasses—frowned, searched the system again and again, and finally looked up at me with something close to pity.

"Mrs. Scarfaro," she said, lowering her voice, "your marriage certificate with Mr. Casper Scarfaro… is forged. Our system has no record of this marriage ever being registered."

My mind went blank. I could barely process what I'd just heard.

"What?"

"The filing number on this certificate doesn't exist in our system." She pushed back the marriage certificate I'd treasured for a year. "Legally speaking, you and Mr. Scarfaro are not husband and wife."

In that instant, memories cut through my mind like shards of broken glass.

After the wedding, Casper told me he’d handle submitting the signed marriage license to the Clerk’s Office. “You’ve been running around all week,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Let me take care of the paperwork.” A few days later, he came home with the marriage certificate and grinned at me: "Done, Mrs. Scarfaro."

I threw myself into his arms and laughed like a fool.

And now I knew—from the very beginning, he'd never intended to give me a real marriage.

The certificate was fake. That grand wedding was nothing but theater. I was never his wife. Just a fool trapped inside a meticulously crafted lie.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my chest, nearly splitting me in two. I bit down hard on my lip, and the taste of iron spread across my tongue.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you alright?"

The clerk's voice reached me as though through water. I tried to answer, but the room had started to spin, the ceiling lights stretching into blinding white streaks.

Then the world went dark.

When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at a bleak white ceiling.

A nurse stood beside the bed, holding a chart, her expression grave.

"Mrs. Scarfaro, please contact your husband immediately."

My heart clenched. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated, then spoke. "You're twelve weeks pregnant, but your physical condition is concerning—severe anemia, and signs of malnutrition. You need to notify the baby's father…"

Pregnant. The word detonated in my skull like a muffled thunderclap.

The persistent nausea, the exhaustion, the dizziness—it wasn't stress. It wasn't insomnia.

Instinctively, I pressed my hand to my stomach. It was flat as ever; I couldn't feel a thing. But something had been growing there all along.

A child. Casper's and mine.

Three months ago, I would have wept with joy.

Now, all I felt was pity.

I picked up my phone and dialed Casper's number. It rang once before the call was rejected.

I dialed again. And again. And again. Until my fingertip went numb from swiping the screen. The nurse stood by, watching me, sympathy etched on her face.

Thirty-seven missed calls.

I stared at that cold, unfeeling number on the screen, and almost laughed.

The don of the Scarfaro family, ruler of Chicago's South Side underworld—his phone never left his side. He answered every call within three rings.

Because in our world, one missed call could mean someone's life.

But he simply would not answer his wife's phone.

Just as I was about to give up, the call finally connected.

"Stop calling." Casper's voice came through the receiver, cold and impatient. "I'm busy."

His voice was low, edged with irritation.

And in those few brief seconds, I heard another voice—Cecilia's cloying, simpering whine, right against the phone.

"Casper, who are you talking to? Come back over here…"

The line went dead.

I clutched the phone, my knuckles white. That voice was a blunt knife carving into my heart, stroke after stroke.

He was busy. Busy being with her. Busy giving her the tenderness and patience that once belonged only to me.

And I—his wife in name—carrying his child, lying in a hospital bed—wasn't worth three seconds of his time.

Slowly, I lowered the phone and turned to the nurse.

"Schedule the procedure." My voice was soft but perfectly steady. "I don't want this baby."

The nurse froze. "Mrs. Scarfaro, perhaps you should take some time to think—"

"There's nothing to think about." I cut her off. "The sooner, the better."

An hour later, I lay on the frigid operating table.

The surgical light was blinding. My body wouldn't stop trembling. The anesthesia entered my veins, and my consciousness lightened bit by bit.

Just before everything went dark, my memories turned painfully vivid.

I was sixteen, in the Alps, buried by an avalanche. The suffocation and terror nearly drove me insane. It was Casper who dug through the ice and snow with his bare hands—his fingers frozen purple, slick with blood—and he didn't stop for a single second.

When he finally pulled me out, he held me, his whole body shaking.

"Veronica," his voice was hoarse, close to tears, "you can't die. If you die, what am I supposed to do?"

That boy who'd torn his hands to shreds to save me.

That man who said he'd love me for the rest of his life.

Where was he now?

With another woman.

Tears slid from the corners of my eyes, running into my hairline. The anesthesia was spreading; consciousness drifted further and further away, like sinking into the deep sea.

"This is the last time," I whispered—unsure whether to myself, or to someone who would never hear. "The last tear I'll ever shed for you."

Then the darkness swallowed me whole.

After the surgery, I lay in the hospital bed for a long time. My body felt hollow, wrung dry. The dull ache in my lower abdomen was a reminder of what I'd just lost.

But I didn't cry.

I called the nurse in. My voice was hoarse but calm. "Have the embryo cryopreserved."

She stared at me in surprise. "Are you sure? That's—"

"I'm sure," I cut in. "Use the best preservation technology available. Cost isn't an issue."

After she left, I leaned back against the pillow, my hand resting on my stomach.

This was where the last connection between me and Casper Scarfaro had been.

Someday, I would return it to him.

As a parting gift. As a verdict on his betrayal.