Chapter 12
Isabella was unraveling. I could see it in the way she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms until they left crescent–shaped marks. In the way her eyes darted across the room, wild and desperate. She knew. She could feel Lorenzo slipping through her fingers. And when a woman like Isabella sensed she was losing, she did what she did best–she schemed.
I watched from the balcony of my penthouse, swirling my wine glass as I listened to Darius over the earpiece.
“She hired an investigator,” he murmured.
I smirked, unimpressed. “Of course, she did.”
“She’s digging into ‘Victoria Moretti.’ If she gets close-”
“She won’t.” I sipped my wine, the taste of victory rich on my tongue. “She’s grasping at straws.”
Darius sighed. “Valeria, you’re playing too deep. Lorenzo is dangerous.”
I leaned against the railing, eyes flickering to the city lights below. “And so am I.”
A pause. Then, “Just don’t forget why you started this.”
I wouldn’t. I could never forget Amara.
***
Lorenzo stood in my office next morning, hands shoved into his pockets, tension rolling off him in waves. I let the silence stretch, savoring the weight of his conflict before finally speaking.
“You’re distracted, boss.”
His jaw ticked. “It’s Dante.”
I tilted my head, feigning concern. “Is something wrong?”
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Isabella says he’s sick again. Same symptoms. But…”
“But what?” I prompted, stepping closer.
His eyes met mine, searching. “It feels like a pattern. Every time I pull away from her, Dante suddenly gets worse or she… got sick.”
I rested a hand on my hip. “Have you considered that maybe… Isabella was pretending and he’s not actually sick?”
He Let Our Daughter Dia for Hic Exle ChiLAL
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Lorenzo stilled.
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I took my time, letting my words sink in before twisting the knife. “What if Isabella is lying? What if Dante is faking it?”
His hands curled into fists.
“What if,” I whispered, my voice silk and venom, “you chose him over Amara for nothing?”
His breath hitched.
I watched the cracks form, the walls he had built around his guilt beginning to crumble.
“She told you Amara would be fine,” I continued, my voice deceptively soft. “She made you believe Dante needed you more. And you believed her.”
Lorenzo’s entire body went rigid, his mind spiraling into the abyss I had so carefully crafted.
“What are you saying?” His voice was low, dangerous.
I stepped closer, fingers trailing along the lapel of his suit. “I’m saying, what if Isabella played you?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“Lorenzo.” I gazed up at him, my expression unreadable. “What if Dante isn’t even your son?”
His breath came sharp and uneven. He stepped back, shaking his head as if trying to dispel the thought.
But the doubt was already there.
Planted. Rooted. Growing.
***
The hospital records leaked two days later.
It wasn’t obvious–just a subtle hint, a small anomaly buried in the paperwork. Enough to raise questions, enough to fuel the fire.
Dante’s blood type.
Incompatible with Lorenzo’s.
It spread like a whisper, crawling through the cracks of the underworld, finding its way into the right ears.
By the time it reached Lorenzo, he was already spiraling.
I sat on his desk, legs crossed, as he paced the length of his office. “The
He Let Our Daughter Die for His Ex’s Child.
Chapter 12
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Isabella was unraveling. I could see it in the way she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms until they left crescent–shaped marks. In the way her eyes darted across the room, wild and desperate. She knew. She could feel Lorenzo slipping through her fingers. And when a woman like Isabella sensed she was losing, she did what she did best–she schemed.
I watched from the balcony of my penthouse, swirling my wine glass as I listened to Darius over the earpiece.
“She hired an investigator,” he murmured.
I smirked, unimpressed. “Of course, she did.”
“She’s digging into ‘Victoria Moretti.‘ If she gets close-*
“She won’t.” I sipped my wine, the taste of victory rich on my tongue. “She’s grasping at straws.”
Darius sighed. “Valeria, you’re playing too deep. Lorenzo is dangerous.”
I leaned against the railing, eyes flickering to the city lights below. “And so am I.”
A pause. Then, “Just don’t forget why you started this.”
I wouldn’t. I could never forget Amara.
**
Lorenzo stood in my office next morning, hands shoved into his pockets, tension rolling off him in waves. I let the silence stretch, savoring the weight of his conflict before finally speaking.
“You’re distracted, boss.”
His jaw ticked. “It’s Dante.”
I tilted my head, feigning concern. “Is something wrong?”
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Isabella says he’s sick again. Same symptoms. But…”
“But what?” I prompted, stepping closer.
His eyes met mine, searching. “It feels like a pattern. Every time I pull away from her, Dante suddenly gets worse or she… got sick.”
I rested a hand on my hip. “Have you considered that maybe… Isabella was pretending and he’s not actually sick?”
Lorenzo stilled.
Chanter 12
12:30 Sun, 2 Mar
Lorenzo stilled.
I took my time, letting my words sink in before twisting the knife. “What if Isabella is lying? What if Dante is faking it?”
His hands curled into fists.
“What if,” I whispered, my voice silk and venom, “you chose him over Amara for nothing?”
His breath hitched.
I watched the cracks form, the walls he had built around his guilt beginning to crumble.
“She told you Amara would be fine,” I continued, my voice deceptively soft. “She made you believe Dante needed you more. And you believed her.”
Lorenzo’s entire body went rigid, his mind spiraling into the abyss I had so carefully crafted.
“What are you saying?” His voice was low, dangerous.
I stepped closer, fingers trailing along the lapel of his suit. “I’m saying, what if Isabella played you?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“Lorenzo.” I gazed up at him, my expression unreadable. “What if Dante isn’t even your son?”
His breath came sharp and uneven. He stepped back, shaking his head as if trying to dispel the thought.
But the doubt was already there.
Planted. Rooted. Growing.
***
The hospital records leaked two days later.
It wasn’t obvious–just a subtle hint, a small anomaly buried in the paperwork. Enough to raise questions, enough to fuel the fire.
Dante’s blood type.
Incompatible with Lorenzo’s.
It spread like a whisper, crawling through the cracks of the underworld, finding its way into the right ears.
By the time it reached Lorenzo, he was already spiraling.
I sat on his desk, legs crossed, as he paced the length of his office. “The
Chapter 12
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His head snapped up.
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I shrugged. “Maybe Dante was born earlier… or later.” I paused, letting the words settle before adding, “Or maybe he was never yours to begin with.”
Lorenzo froze.
I saw it then–the moment everything fractured.
His grip tightened around his phone, knuckles turning white.
Then, with deadly calm, he said, “I’m hiring an investigator.”
I smiled. “A wise choice, boss.”
I sat across from Lorenzo that night, dinner spread between us, candlelight flickering in his dark eyes.
“Victoria,” he murmured, swirling his wine. “Do you believe in fate?”
I tilted my head, pretending to consider. “Fate?” I repeated, tapping a manicured nail against my glass. “I think fate is a convenient excuse for people who don’t want to take control of their lives.”
He smirked, something almost dangerous in his expression. “So you don’t believe we were meant to meet?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Oh, Lorenzo.” I leaned closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “We weren’t meant to meet. I chose you.”
His eyes darkened, something primal flickering in them. He liked that. The idea that I had chosen him, that fate hadn’t forced us together–I had.
He reached out, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “I don’t know what it is about you,” he murmured. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Good.
Because soon, he wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.
Across the city, in the dim glow of a hotel suite, Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers clenching around the stack of photos her investigator had given her.
Photos of me.
Or, more accurately–photos of Valeria Moretti.
Her breath hitched as she traced the image, realization dawning.
Victoria Moretti doesn’t exist.
Her heart pounded. “Who the hell are you?” she whispered.
Chapter 12
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