Isabella POV:
I refused to eat poison.
My body went cold, the shock forging my disbelief into something diamond-hard: resolve. I looked at Vincent, at the man who was my husband, and saw a stranger. He was letting this happen. He was sanctioning my humiliation.
"No," I said again, my voice flat and empty.
I turned on my heel and walked away. I didn't run. I didn't cry. I walked out of the hospital, past the guards who bowed their heads to me out of habit, and onto the street. The thick, humid city air seemed to choke me.
I hailed a cab.
A yellow taxi screeched to a halt in front of me. As I opened the door, I glanced back. Vincent was standing on the curb, Rosa clinging to his arm, his face a thundercloud of fury. For a Don, to be left on the street by his wife was a public challenge, an act of open defiance he could not afford.
For a split second, I saw him take a step forward, as if to follow. But then Rosa whimpered something, and he stopped. He hesitated.
That hesitation was a death sentence for my love.
I got in the cab and gave the driver the address to our mansion, the gilded cage I had, until this moment, mistaken for a home. The entire ride, I stared out the window, a strange calm settling over me. The dream was over. The man I had loved, the savior I had built up in my mind, was a lie. He was weak.
In my head, a single, terrifying thought began to form. A thought about the child inside me. What was the point of bringing him into a world where his own father would not protect his birthright? Where he would be second to a bastard?
When I arrived at the mansion, the silence was suffocating. I went straight to our bedroom and began to pack a bag. Just the essentials. My passport, the cash I kept hidden, a few changes of clothes.
I was zipping the bag when the bedroom door opened. Vincent stood there, his suit jacket gone, his tie loosened. He looked exhausted and angry.
"You don't ever walk away from me in public again," he said, his voice a low growl.
"You don't ever stand with your whore over your wife again," I shot back.
He ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation. "She ambushed me, Isabella. I was going to handle it."
"Handle it? By taking her to lunch? By letting her declare her bastard the heir to my son's legacy?"
His eyes flickered to the bag on the bed. His posture changed. The anger was replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. The Don was back.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm leaving."
"No, you're not."
He walked over to my nightstand, picked up my phone, and slipped it into his pocket. He then moved to the door.
"I can't have you making a scene," he said calmly. "It's bad for business. It's bad for the family."
"You are the one who made a scene!" I screamed, the control finally snapping.
"I'm placing you under guard," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "For your protection."
"My protection?" I laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "You're imprisoning me."
He met my gaze, and for the first time, I saw the real fear in his eyes. It wasn't fear of me leaving him. It was something else.
"I can't risk it," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Risk what?"
His eyes fell to my stomach. And I understood.
It wasn't about me leaving him. It was never about me. He was afraid I would end the pregnancy. Afraid I would take away his legitimate heir-the one thing securing his unstable position, the only bulwark against a succession crisis.
He wasn't protecting me. He was containing a volatile asset.
"You're not going anywhere," he repeated, his voice stripped of all warmth. He stepped out of the room, and I heard the unmistakable click of the lock.
