Chapter 3

(Isabella POV)

Gabriel. He was carefully supporting Erin Blake as they walked out of a room marked "Obstetrics Specialist."

Erin's face showed an almost stupid satisfaction and pride, her hand resting protectively on her noticeably swollen belly.

And Gabriel—that man who could make opponents break into cold sweats at the negotiating table, who wouldn't blink during a firefight—now wore an almost devout expression of first-time fatherly joy.

He was saying something to her, looking down with eyes so tender they could drip water, one hand constantly protective at her lower back, his posture one of complete possessive protection.

Erin... was pregnant. Judging by that belly, not a small number of months either.

A child. Gabriel's child.

They had a child about to be born.

This realization was like a bullet, precisely shooting through my last shaky delusion.

All my previous suspicions, pain, and self-deception looked so ridiculous and insignificant before this scene.

I hadn't lost to some fling. I'd lost to a family-approved heir being nurtured in her womb.

I don't know how I drove back to the penthouse apartment.

The apartment was dead silent, expensive handmade carpets swallowing all footsteps.

I collapsed by the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking New York's sleepless lights, feeling not a shred of warmth.

My phone screen lit up abruptly in the darkness, like a summons from hell. It was Erin.

A close-up photo of a prenatal report. Gestational age: three months. Below it, a link to a streaming platform.

[I'm pregnant, exactly three months. The father is over the moon. Tonight we're streaming to share this amazing news with our family. Come watch, be happy for us?]

The text dripped with malicious showing off.

My fingers were cold and stiff, barely able to hold the phone. A masochistic impulse drove me to click that link, instinctively hitting the screen record button.

On screen, Erin wore a silk maternity dress, face flushed, waving the prenatal report like a child displaying a trophy.

The comments were flooded with "congratulations" and "so happy!"

Then a hand I knew so well I could trace it with my eyes closed entered the frame—that hand wearing the Rossi family signet ring, gently caressing Erin's belly.

"Even if you're not tired, the baby needs rest. Be good, listen, go to sleep."

Gabriel's voice came through the speakers, low and husky, carrying a doting possessiveness I'd never experienced.

The comments exploded, frantically demanding "brother-in-law" show his face.

A few scattered comments said the voice sounded exactly like the legendary Boss Rossi, but they were quickly buried under more congratulations.

Erin laughed delightedly, leaning toward off-camera: "He can't show his face, special status, you know."

She paused, then began fabricating in a sickeningly sweet voice at the fans' urging.

"He was so innocent when he was chasing me. Back in high school, he'd secretly slip me love letters, so nervous he could barely speak. Rehearsed dozens of times but still couldn't hand them over. Finally I just grabbed one and said 'I'm willing'..."

I listened, feeling like someone was scraping my eardrums with a rusty blade.

Gabriel—all those real, once unique moments between us—he'd so easily given them to her, even allowing her to publicly distort and flaunt them?

Near the end of the stream, Erin said she had to go. The fans wouldn't let her.

She glanced coyly off-camera, using a coquettish tone: "It's not that I want to go... it's that your brother-in-law can't wait anymore. He says... it's time for our 'private lessons.'"

Amid the fans' even more frenzied screams and suggestive speculation, Gabriel's hand appeared at the edge of the frame and simply turned off the stream.

Before the screen went black, I seemed to hear Erin's affected laugh and Gabriel's low, desire-laden response.

I hurled my phone away. It bounced off the soft sofa, screen darkening. The room plunged into complete darkness.

The place where my heart should be felt hollow, not even a trace of pain left, only boundless, icy numbness.

Soon. Liberation was coming soon.