Chapter 1 — Three Days of Silence

I lost my baby because my husband—the don who rules this city’s underworld—wouldn’t spend five hundred dollars to save me.

When I wake up again.

The doctor didn’t sit. He stood at the foot of my bed with his hands folded, like there was a script he had to follow.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We weren’t able to save the pregnancy.”

The nurse beside him added, softer, “We’re very sorry.”

That was all they had for me: sorry and regret, repeated until the words lost meaning.

My body still trembled under the thin hospital blanket. Not sobbing—shaking. My skin felt too cold, my mouth too dry. I stared at the ceiling and tried to understand how something can be inside you one moment and gone the next.

Then my phone buzzed.

A text.

From Dante Romano.

Not a call. Not Are you okay? Not even Where are you?

Just a text, like he was correcting an employee.

Dante:Three days without an expense request.Dante:Is this you trying to play hard to get?Dante:Fine. You’re being smart for once. I’ll restore your basic limit.Dante:And don’t ever fake an “emergency” to get money again.

My throat tightened so hard it hurt.

I wasn’t faking anything. I’d been bleeding on the floor of his bathroom.

Three days ago, the pain hit so suddenly I almost dropped my phone. I’d been walking from the bedroom to the kitchen when it started—sharp, deep, wrong. I made it to the bathroom and sank onto the tile, one hand on the sink, the other pressed against my stomach.

When I looked down and saw blood, my mind went blank. Then it came back in one ugly rush.

I called Dante.

Once. Twice. Again and again until my call log looked insane.

No answer.

I texted, hands slick with sweat.

Please pick up.I’m bleeding.I need you.

Nothing.

And then—because the universe is cruel—my phone lit up with a story notification.

A photo.

A private room full of gold light and expensive laughter. Champagne bottles on a table. Men in suits. A woman in a red dress standing at the center like she owned the night—Serena Voss, the woman who ran Dante’s finances and acted like she ran his life too.

Her arm was around Dante’s shoulder.

Dante was smiling at her.

The caption read: “To the win.”

My stomach twisted. Not jealousy. Not even betrayal. Just the simple fact that he was celebrating while I was on a bathroom floor trying not to pass out.

I dropped the phone and called an ambulance.

At the hospital, they moved fast until the billing screen became a problem.

A nurse pushed paperwork at me while another nurse checked my vitals.

“Deposit has to clear before we proceed,” the first nurse said. She wasn’t mean. She was trained to be firm.

“I’m Dante Romano’s wife,” I said, like the title could open doors.

She didn’t blink. “We still need the deposit.”

“I don’t have access,” I said. “Call his office. Call finance. Please.”

They did. I did too, from the gurney, one hand clamped over my mouth so the screams wouldn’t come out.

A voice finally answered on the finance line. Serena.

“Mrs. Romano,” she said, calm and crisp. “You need to file the request properly.”

“I did,” I said. “I filed it twice. I’m in the hospital. I’m bleeding. Release the money.”

There was a short pause, like she was reading a menu.

“It’s pending,” she said.

“Pending?” I repeated, disbelieving.

“Emergency disbursements require verification,” she said. “Procedure exists for a reason.”

“I’m losing my baby,” I said, and my voice cracked on the last word.

Another pause. A small exhale, impatient.

“I understand you’re emotional,” she said. “But the request is pending.”

Pending.

Like blood waits politely.

Like a life can sit in a queue.

The nurse kept checking the screen. The doctor kept asking, “Has it cleared?” Their faces tightened minute by minute. I watched them watch the system, and I realized how little my pain mattered without a green check mark.

When the transfer finally arrived, they rushed me through.

They stabilized me.

They stopped the bleeding.

But when I woke up, the pregnancy was gone.

Now, in the quiet hospital room, Dante’s text glowed on my screen accusing me of making it up.

Something in me broke—and I mean that in the cleanest way. Not a dramatic shatter. More like a lock clicking open.

I didn’t want apologies. I didn’t want to be soothed. I didn’t even want revenge yet.

I wanted out.

On the tray table sat a thick folder: discharge papers, bills, instructions, receipts. Paperwork. The language Dante understood.

I pulled out the document I’d had drafted months ago, because living with Dante meant always having a door hidden somewhere.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

My hands stopped shaking when I signed.

Not because I wasn’t hurting.

Because the decision made everything simple.

I dated it. I stared at my name and felt sick for a second—then steady.

I texted Dante back exactly what he deserved.

Me:Noted.

Then I slid the divorce petition into the stack of ordinary documents, right between a billing receipt and a home-security authorization form. I made it look boring. I made it look like something he’d sign without thinking, because he always did.

I put the folder in my bag and turned my phone face down.

I didn’t need him to care anymore.

I just needed his signature.

And I was going to get it.