He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

The air in the ballroom had grown too thin, suffocating.

I needed to breathe.

I slipped away from the crushing weight of the crowd and ducked into a private lounge down the corridor.

It was dark. Quiet.

A sanctuary.

I leaned back against the heavy wood of the closed door, squeezing my eyes shut.

My chest ached with a physical, sharp pain.

It felt as though my ribs were constricting, a steel vice tightening around my heart, squeezing the life out of it.

I remained there for ten minutes.

Just breathing.

Just willing the porcelain mask of my composure not to shatter.

Then, I heard voices outside.

They were close.

Right on the other side of the wood.

"You are tense, baby."

It was Aria's voice.

Slurring. Needy.

I froze.

"Not here, Aria," Alex's voice replied.

It was rough. Impatient.

"Why not?" she giggled, the sound grating against the silence.

"The Ice Queen is busy playing hostess. She won't notice. She never notices anything."

I heard the wet, sickening sound of a kiss.

Sloppy and desperate.

"Stop," Alex groaned, though there was no force behind the command.

"My father is watching."

"Your father likes me," she purred. "He knows I'm real. Not like her."

"She's like a sculpture, Alex. Cold to the touch."

Silence.

Then Alex spoke again.

His voice was low, heavy with a dark frustration.

"She is cold. I haven't felt heat in that bed for years."

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sudden.

I bit my lip until I tasted the copper tang of iron.

I was cold because I was terrified.

I was cold because every month, I failed him.

I was cold because he had ceased touching me with love and started touching me only with expectation.

"Be a good girl," Alex said, his tone dismissing.

"Wait for me at the hotel. I bought you that bracelet you wanted. The Cartier one."

"Yay!" Aria squealed.

I heard footsteps retreating down the hall.

I waited until the silence returned, thick and absolute.

Then, I opened the door.

I walked back into the party.

I had to finish the night.

I had to be perfect.

I spotted them near the bar.

Aria was swilling champagne.

Alex stood beside her, his gaze sweeping the room, scanning for threats.

He didn't see the threat walking straight toward him.

I approached them.

My head was high.

My steps were steady.

Aria saw me first.

Her eyes lit up with a drunken malice.

"Oh, look," she announced loudly. "The birthday girl."

She swayed on her feet, visibly intoxicated.

Alex turned.

His eyes widened the moment they landed on me.

"Catarina," he said. "I was looking for you."

Liar.

Then I saw it-the mark on Aria's neck.

A fresh, purple bruise blooming right above her collarbone.

A hickey.

He had marked her.

At my party.

Under my roof.

I stared at it.

Alex followed my gaze.

He flinched.

He actually flinched.

He reached out, pulling the collar of her dress up in a futile attempt to hide it.

Aria slapped his hand away.

"Don't be shy, Daddy," she slurred.

The room went silent.

Daddy.

The disrespect was absolute.

"Can I get you a drink, Mrs. DeLuca?" Aria asked, her voice dripping with mockery.

"Or is alcohol bad for your... condition?"

She pointed a manicured finger at my stomach.

My barren stomach.

Alex grabbed her arm, his grip hard.

"Enough, Aria."

I looked at her.

Then I looked at him.

"No, thank you," I said.

My voice was ice.

"I don't drink with the help."

Aria's face twisted in rage.

She lunged forward.

She tried to throw her drink at me, but her coordination failed her.

She tripped over her own feet.

She crashed into the champagne tower standing like a sentry beside us.

Glass shattered.

Crystal flutes rained down like jagged hail.

I tried to step back, but the floor was already slick.

I slipped.

I fell hard onto the shards.

A sharp, searing pain sliced through my forearm.

I looked down.

Blood.

Bright red blood was pouring from a gash in my arm, soaking instantly into the pristine white of my dress.

"Alex!" I gasped.

I looked up.

Alex was moving.

He was diving.

But not for me.

He threw his body over Aria.

He shielded her from the falling glass.

"Are you okay?" he shouted, his voice frantic.

"Did it hit you?"

"The baby! Check the baby!"

He was cradling her face.

He was checking her for scratches.

He was looking at her with pure, unadulterated terror.

I sat on the floor.

Bleeding.

Surrounded by broken glass.

And my husband didn't even know I was there.

The room was staring.

The Capos were watching.

Don Donato was watching.

They saw the choice he made.

He chose the vessel over the wife.

He chose the mere possibility of a son over the reality of me.

I stood up.

My arm was throbbing.

Blood dripped from my fingertips onto the marble floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I didn't call his name again.

I didn't ask for help.

I turned around and walked out of the ballroom.

The valet saw the blood and ran to get my car.

I drove myself to the Family Clinic.

I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped tightly in a silk napkin.

When I arrived, the doctor stitched me up in silence.

Twelve stitches.

He bandaged my arm.

As I was leaving, I saw a car pull up.

Alex's car.

I retreated into the shadows of the waiting room.

Alex rushed in.

He was carrying Aria.

She wasn't bleeding.

She wasn't even crying.

She was laughing softly, her arms looped around his neck.

"Just a scare, baby," Alex was whispering.

"Just a scare."

He kissed her forehead.

He held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

I watched them.

I felt the weight of the bandage on my arm.

I felt the emptiness in my womb.

But the heaviest thing was the realization settling in my heart.

I was a liability.

I was an obstacle.

I walked out the back exit into the biting cold of the night air.

I took out my phone.

I typed a message to the encrypted number my father had given me years ago.

The number for the emergency exit.

I didn't send it yet.

But I saved the draft.

The fire in the fireplace had burned the photos.

But the cold fire inside me was going to burn everything else.