"Dr. Evans, this is Isabella Rossi. I need to schedule an abortion."
After hanging up, I stood in the silence for a few minutes before my legs buckled, and I collapsed.
I stumbled off the wedding platform, my palm coming down on a shard from a shattered champagne flute. The glass bit deep into my skin, and blood welled instantly.
An excruciating pain shot through me, but with it came an overwhelming sense of finality.
The man I had loved for ten years was rotten to the core.
And I didn't want him anymore.
Ignoring the throbbing in my hand, I called a car and went to a discreet clinic.
In the clinic's lobby, I had just wiped my phone of all pregnancy-related data and was heading for the front desk to check in when a hand grabbed my arm.
"Look, Don, it's Isabella!"
A Soldato in Dante's service gripped me tightly, his eyes full of mockery.
Dante, who had just burst in carrying Scarlett, saw me, and his eyes blazed with fury.
"Isabella, I told you I would come back to finish the wedding. Why did you follow me here?"
"Do you have so little faith in me?" His tone was harsh, his jaw tight with rage.
"Don, she has no respect!"
"Exactly! Miss Scarlett's about to pop. What's she even doing at a clinic if she's not showing?"
"I bet she did it on purpose, just to upset Miss Scarlett!"
As his men muttered, Dante's expression grew colder.
"You've gone too far this time, Isabella."
"She has BPD, and she's pregnant. Why do you have to be so damn difficult, especially now?!"
The word "difficult" struck me like a physical blow.
My fingers dug into my own flesh, my lips trembling too much to form a reply.
Ten years ago, maybe I had been difficult. A spoiled girl from a family of artists.
But in the decade since, to avoid being a burden to Dante, I had learned to walk on eggshells. I had swallowed every injustice, every slight, and never said a word.
When he was shot, I was the one who sat by his hospital bed for days on end.
I had remade myself from a sheltered young woman into an accessory, a woman who existed only for him.
My entire world revolved around Dante.
And he had the audacity to call me difficult?
My body trembled with suppressed rage. "Dante," I bit out, my voice dangerously low, "I'm here for an abortion—"
Before I could finish, Scarlett let out a pained moan from his arms.
"Dante, put me down! Just let me die!"
"The baby and I are just a burden, aren't we? If we died, you'd be free!"
She thrashed in his arms, crying hysterically, until her face went pale and she conveniently fainted.
"Move!"
"Isabella, I'm beyond disappointed in you!"
Dante barked, shouldering me aside as he rushed toward the operating room with Scarlett in his arms.
I slammed back against the cold wall, a sharp pain shooting through my lower abdomen.
A warm trickle ran down my inner thigh, but I was too numb to register what it was.
As my consciousness blurred, I remembered my eighteenth birthday. Dante, back from a three-month family mission with a fresh scar across his throat, insisted on singing "Happy Birthday" to me. His voice was a rasp, every note off-key, but the rough sound was a strange comfort that settled deep in my heart.
From that day forward, my only birthday wish, every year, was for Dante to come home safe.
The thought was laughable now.
With a trembling hand, I gritted my teeth and pushed myself upright. I took out my phone and posted a job for a Fixer in New York.
A few minutes later, a notification: job accepted.
My body went limp. I sagged against the wall, about to slide to the floor, when a hand slapped me, hard, across the face.
"Isabella, Scarlett said you poisoned her. Was it you?!"
