Broken Vows: The Mafia Princess Strikes Back

Isabella POV:

The sharp crack of the file hitting the marble coffee table should have shattered my composure. Instead, it crystallized it.

"Look at what you've done!"

Margaret Griffin—my fiancé's mother, my future mother-in-law—shrieked, her voice thin and sharp enough to cut glass. Her manicured finger, trembling with rage, jabbed toward the medical report on the table. An emergency room visit.

"You vicious, evil woman! You made Bobby lose my grandson!"

Beside her stood my fiancé, Jerrell Griffin. His face, usually handsome in a bland, predictable way, was twisted with disgust. He looked at me as if I were something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

And draped against his side, sobbing with theatrical little gasps, was Bobby Little—his mistress, the woman who had just accused me of shoving her down the stairs.

I didn't look at the report.

My gaze drifted past Margaret's apoplectic face, over Jerrell's condemnation, and settled on Bobby.

The scene was identical. A perfect, horrifying replica.

Because I had already lived this nightmare once.

In my previous life, I had stood in this very room, trembling and weeping, begging for a chance to explain. It hadn't mattered. They had branded me a monster, broken the engagement, and cast me out. My own family disowned me to save their business ties. I died two weeks later—destitute and broken in a cold, unforgiving city, alone and forgotten, with no one to even close my eyes.

But somehow, impossibly, I had opened them again.

I woke up this morning in my own bed, in my own body, before the wedding, before the accusations, before the ruin. The clock had turned back.

And now I understood: this was not a second chance to endure. This was a second chance to destroy.

A chill crept up my spine, but I didn't shiver. I smiled.

The nightmare flickered behind my eyes—the same accusations, the same room, the same faces. But this time, I wasn't the screaming, pleading girl from my dreams. This time, I would not beg. I would not explain.

I would strike before they could.

I finally spoke, my voice shockingly steady, cutting through Margaret's impending second wave of hysterics.

"Your grandson?" I asked, my tone soft, conversational. "Margaret, as far as I am aware, the only legitimate heir to the Griffin name can come from my bloodline."

The words hung in the air, a slap more resounding than any physical blow.

Margaret's mouth snapped shut. Blood rushed to her face, turning it a blotchy, unbecoming shade of purple.

"Isabella!" Jerrell roared, stepping forward. "Don't you dare! Bobby was carrying my child!"

My eyes shifted to him. For a fleeting moment, I felt a sliver of something akin to pity. He was a fool. A pawn in a game he didn't even know he was playing.

"Your child?" I tilted my head. "Jerrell, are you quite sure about that?"

Bobby flinched in his arms, her sobs hitching. "Jerrell," she whimpered, pressing her face into his chest. "It hurts… Our baby is gone…"

Slowly, I rose to my feet. The silk of my dress, a deep emerald green, whispered around my legs. It was a dress I'd bought for a celebration that would now never happen—because I had no intention of walking down any aisle to this family.

I ignored Jerrell's furious breathing and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, my back to them. The manicured gardens of the Griffin estate stretched out below—a perfect, orderly world that was about to be torn apart.

"This farce," I said, my voice resonating with an authority I hadn't known I possessed until this very moment, "is over."

"Farce?" Margaret screeched. "You have the audacity to call this a farce? Is this how the Valeriano family taught you manners?"

I turned slowly, my gaze sweeping over her. My brown eyes, which people often called warm, felt like chips of ice in my own skull.

"Manners?" I repeated. "No. Today, I'll teach you about Valeriano rules."

I walked back to the table and picked up my phone. Jerrell lunged, as if to snatch it from me, but I was faster. My movement was fluid, practiced—the muscle memory of a woman who had already lost everything once and would never be caught off guard again. He was clumsy with rage.

I dialed a number from memory.

It was answered on the first ring. No greeting, just silence.

"Winter," I said her name and felt the ghost of my old self flinch.

In my previous life, I had feared Winter Frost—feared her cold eyes and the way she moved like a shadow given form. I never understood why my father kept her so close.

Now I knew: she was not a monster. She was an instrument of absolute control. And such instruments, when wielded correctly, could dismantle any lie.

"Activate the 'Purification Protocol.' I need Dr. Wallace. Now."

Dr. Wallace. The Valeriano family's most elite, fiercely guarded asset. A physician who dismantled falsehoods with medical precision and buried scandals before they could breathe. In my last life, I had never dared to summon him. Tonight, he would answer to me.

I ended the call and placed the phone on the table with a soft click.

I sat back down on the plush white sofa, crossing my legs at the ankle. A queen waiting for her court to assemble.

My eyes locked onto Jerrell, then his mother. Their shock was a palpable thing, a thick, heavy blanket smothering their fury.

"And just so we're all perfectly clear," I said, each word precise and deliberate, "as of this moment, the engagement between the Valeriano and Griffin families is officially terminated."

Jerrell's jaw dropped. "What? Are you insane?"

Margaret, recovering slightly, found her voice. "This marriage is not for you to decide! It was arranged by your father!"

A small, humorless laugh escaped my lips. It was a dry, brittle sound.

I gestured with a flick of my wrist toward Bobby, who was still trying to look pathetic in Jerrell's arms.

"Before we discuss the terms of our annulment," I said, my smile widening into something sharp and unforgiving, "perhaps we should first verify if a life ever truly existed inside our little victim's womb."

Bobby's body went rigid.