He Forced the Abortion. I’ll Force His Downfall

My husband brought me to the doctor to have an abortion just to calm his mistress down. He grabbed my wrist so hard I thought the bone would snap.

“I barely even touch you. Who knows whose kid that is?!” he snapped. “And Vexanna has not replied to me in three days because of your pregnancy! Fix it.”

I tried to pull back. I begged him not to do it but he shoved me when I refused and I fell from the second floor then everything went black.

When I woke up, the baby that once kicked inside me was gone. And my right leg? My leg was broken. Screws and metal. I'm a renowned famous ballet dancer but now? No more dancing. No more stage lights. Just pain.

He walked in wearing his black suit like some king of the underworld, then dropped divorce papers on my blanket.

“Sign it. Vexanna is nervous about us. I need her calm.” He tapped the spot where I needed to sign. “Five hundred million dollars. Cash. Enough for a luxury life even with that crippled leg of yours. What do you think?.”

I nodded and bitterly signed. My hand shook and he just stared at me like I offended him by agreeing.

“While the divorce cools, do not let me hear you are sleeping around, or else…”He slammed the door so hard the walls shook.

Stefano, the great mafia heir.

Stefano, the man who swore to protect me.

Stefano, who traded our child for three unread messages from another woman.

After he left, I heard him outside speaking low to the doctor. That cold mafia voice everyone feared.

“When the anesthesia is gone, do not give her anything for the pain. Understood? Let her feel the fucking pain.She needs to learn.”

My tears fell down freely and curled up on the bed like a corpse. My hands touched my stomach. It was still soft, still warm, but empty. That little life inside of me was gone because its father thought grief would make his mistress answer her phone.

Five years of marriage.

Three years before that of holding his hand and believing him when he promised forever… What happened now?

The nurse came in later to change my dressings.

She froze when she saw my tears.

“It is time, Mrs. Worthington.”

“I am not Mrs. Worthington anymore,” I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone dying.

She looked away and began unwrapping the gauze. My leg looked like something out of a war. Bent. Sewn. Ruined. I remembered shielding my belly as I fell, but it did not matter in the end.

The pain crawled back up my bones. “It hurts… Can I have painkillers?” I whispered.

She looked terrified. “He told us no. He said you should feel everything.”

So I lay there, shaking, swallowing sobs, realizing the truth:

He did not punish me because he thought I cheated. He punished me because he wanted to please Vexanna. Because she pouted and ignored his messages.

Our child died as an apology gift.

I stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of it.

He was the mafia boss everyone feared. But I was the only one he destroyed slowly, quietly, on purpose.

…

On the second day in the hospital, Stefano sent one of his men to pick me up. No greeting. No visit. Just a driver in a black suit who did not speak a word.

He took me straight back to the Worthington estate that used to feel like home. Now it felt like a prison with marble floors.

A text came in before I even got out of the car.

“During the cooling off period, you stay in the villa. Do not fucking step outside, woman,” Stefano wrote.

I did not reply.

He sent two more messages immediately.

“Floryn, I am warning you. If you dare talk to another man, I will deal with you myself.”

“Do not think of leaving this place.”

I answered with a single dot. Nothing more was needed.

I dragged myself up the stairs on crutches. Every step felt like knives carving into my leg. I once danced on world stages. Now I could barely climb my own staircase.

At the top, Mrs. Coleslaw stopped me. “This bedroom belongs to Mr. Worthington and Miss Vexanna now,” she muttered. “Your room is that storage space at the end.”

She pointed. I stared. I just nodded.

This house was mine. I chose the curtains. The roses in the garden. The color of the tiles. Now his mistress sleeps in our bed while I get shoved into a room that smells of bleach and cardboard.

“Alright. I understand,” I said quietly.

…

That night, in that cramped closet space, I could not sleep. My leg throbbed so badly I thought I might scream. Then my phone buzzed.

A photo from Vexanna.

She was curled against Stefano in our bed, her fingers in a victory sign, wearing the necklace he once clasped around my neck. My lip bled where I bit it. She knew exactly how to hit where it hurt.

Morning came with shouting downstairs. I hobbled out, holding the railing.

Vexanna stood in the living room wearing my silk nightgown, ordering the staff like she owned every wall and tile.

“This vase is ugly. Throw it out,” she said, tossing away something from our honeymoon like trash.

“That belongs to Ms. Stewart,” Mrs. Coleslaw whispered.

“It belongs to Stefano. Which means it is mine! You hear me old hag?!” Vexanna snapped.

She looked up, saw me, then raised her voice.

“Right, Stefano?”

Stefano sat on the sofa, one leg crossed, cold eyes taking everything in like a ruler watching peasants.“Do whatever she wants,” he said lazily.

His gaze slid to me for half a second. Something flickered. Then nothing but ice.

“Come eat,” he added. As if I was a stray he threw scraps too.

I made my way down the staircase. Vexanna rushed to me with fake sweetness, then slammed her hip into my bad leg. Pain exploded so bright my sight blurred.

“Oh no, I did not see you!” she whispered, then leaned close to my ear. “You broken little thing. You stay here and I will bury you.”

Stefano watched it. All of it. But his response?

His response was a tired frown. “Be careful.”

At breakfast she sat in my chair feeding him fruit like some plaything came to life. I chewed what was on my plate without tasting it.

“Ms. Stewart,” she said loudly, “I heard you used to dance ballet? Shame you will only dance with clutches from now on.”

I set down my chopsticks and looked right at her.

“Ms. Peters, do you know why Stefano never brings you to real dinners?”

Her painted smile cracked.

“Because he is embarrassed by you,” I said quietly. “Just like right now.”

Before the last word even settled, Stefano stood and his hand connected with my face.

The world rang.

His voice was low and lethal.

“Enough!”