Ella Farmer POV
I didn't just leave; I fled.
I had violated every protocol of a Mafia fiancée by leaving the Don's party without permission, but I didn't care. Fear was a far more potent motivator than tradition.
I took a taxi back to the penthouse, my hands shaking so hard I couldn't even steady the key to unlock the door. It took three tries before the tumbler finally clicked.
When I finally got inside, I went straight to the guest room where I had been sleeping. I didn't want to be here, but I had no choice.
I needed my passport.
I needed to leave New York tonight.
But the hallway was wrong. The silence was wrong. The door to the guest room was open.
Diana was there.
She was wearing my silk robe, the one Arthur had given me for our anniversary. It hung loosely on her frame, a ghost of the life I was trying to escape.
She was rummaging through my drawers, yanking out handfuls of silk and cotton and flinging my clothes onto the floor.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice cracking under the weight of my exhaustion.
"Making space," she said, not even looking at me. She tossed a blouse aside like it was a rag.
"Arthur said I could have this room. The energy is better here."
"Get out," I whispered.
She turned, smiling. It was a cold, predatory expression.
"You don't get to give orders anymore, Ella. You're just a placeholder until the old man dies."
She stepped toward me, her eyes gleaming with malice, then suddenly threw herself backward, crashing into the nightstand.
The sound of wood splintering was sickening. She knocked a lamp over, shattering it into a thousand ceramic shards.
"Help!" she screamed, her voice piercing the silence. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"Arthur! She's hurting me!"
I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer audacity of the lie. My brain couldn't process the speed of her betrayal.
Arthur burst into the room a moment later, his shirt still stained with his own blood from the balcony. The metallic scent of violence clung to him.
He saw Diana on the floor, sobbing, and me standing over her.
He didn't ask what happened.
He didn't look for the truth.
He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, his fingers digging into my flesh like iron claws.
"I told you to be nice to her!" he roared.
"Arthur, she threw herself-" I tried to explain, panic rising in my throat.
He dragged me out of the room, through the living room, and to the front door of the penthouse. I stumbled, unable to find my footing against his rage.
He opened it and shoved me into the hallway.
"You need to cool off," he spat, his eyes devoid of any recognition, any love.
"Don't come back inside until you learn your place."
He slammed the door in my face.
The lock clicked. A sound of finality.
I was locked out of my own home, in the hallway, wearing a gala dress, with no phone and no money.
The pain in my stomach returned, sharper this time, like a knife twisting in my gut. It radiated outward, stealing my breath.
I slid down the wall, clutching my abdomen. The cold plaster offered no comfort.
The world started to spin. The floor tilted.
Black spots danced in my vision, swallowing the light.
I passed out on the cold marble floor of the corridor.
I woke up under harsh fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose.
A doctor was standing over me, looking concerned.
"Mrs. Mckay?" he asked, assuming I was already married. The name felt like a slap.
"Miss Farmer," I corrected, my voice a dry rasp.
"You collapsed from stress and dehydration," he said, checking my chart. His tone was clinical, but his eyes held pity.
"But your baby is fine."
The room went silent. The hum of the machines seemed to vanish.
"My what?" I whispered.
"You're eight weeks pregnant, Miss Farmer."
I stared at the ceiling, tears finally leaking from my eyes, hot tracks against my cold skin.
I was carrying the heir to the Mckay crime family.
I was carrying the child of a man who had just locked me out in the hallway like a dog.
I borrowed a nurse's phone to call Arthur.
He needed to know.
Maybe this would break the spell. Maybe the blood tie would mean more than Diana's lies.
He answered on the second ring.
"Arthur, I'm in the hospital," I said, my voice trembling.
"I'm busy, Ella," he said coldly. Ice dripped from every syllable.
"Diana is having a panic attack because of you. Don't call again."
The line went dead.
A moment later, a notification popped up on the nurse's phone.
Diana had posted a photo on Instagram.
It was a selfie of her and Arthur in our bed. In my bed.
She was wearing my necklace.
The caption read: Healing old wounds with new love.
Then a text message came through to my old number, forwarded to the nurse's phone because of the family cloud account.
It was from Diana.
Stay away from him. Or the next time you cough blood, it won't be from an ulcer.
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the hospital air.
I handed the phone back to the nurse.
My grandmother, Hertha, was the only family I had left.
I needed to get to her.
I needed to run.
