“Keep her.” Those were the two words I heard my mafia husband say about another woman on our fifth wedding anniversary,

By morning, the safehouse had transformed into a command center. Monitors lined the walls of the lower library, displaying satellite feeds, city traffic cameras, and blueprints of shipping docks along the Eastern seaboard. Armed men moved through the corridors with the silent efficiency of trained predators.

I stayed in the second-floor master suite, curled in an oversized velvet armchair, staring out at the snow beginning to dust the pine trees.

My stomach churned violently. The nausea came in waves now, thick and debilitating, fueled by the stress of the last twenty-four hours and the seven-week-old life taking root inside me. I had managed to choke down half a dry piece of toast before my body rejected it, and I spent twenty minutes kneeling on the cold marble floor of the bathroom, dry-heaving while the faucet ran to cover the sound.

When the bathroom door swung open, Adrien stood on the threshold.

He had showered and changed into a dark charcoal sweater and slacks, but the exhaustion was etched permanently into the lines around his eyes. He stopped dead, his gaze tracking from my pale face to the marble floor, then to my trembling hands resting on the edge of the sink.

"You’re sick," he said instantly, moving toward me.

"It’s just stress," I lied, pushing myself to my feet and grabbing a towel to wipe my mouth. "Being hunted by cartel hitmen doesn't do wonders for my digestion."

Adrien reached out, his hand hovering near my waist before he pulled it back, remembering the wall I had put between us the night before. His jaw clenched. "Dr. Rossi will be here in an hour."

"No," I snapped, panic flaring sharp in my chest. If Rossi examined me, the pregnancy would be uncovered within five minutes. In the Moretti syndicate, an heir was not just a child—it was a strategic vulnerability, a prize, a hostage, a future target. Until I knew whether Adrien and I even had a future, I refused to let our baby become another piece on his chessboard. "I don't need a doctor, Adrien. I need answers. If you’re going to keep me prisoner in this fortress, you owe me the truth."

Adrien stared at me for a long, calculating moment. His eyes dropped to my stomach, then flicked back to my face. A strange, sharp curiosity flickered in his gaze, but he suppressed it.

"Come downstairs," he said quietly. "You want the truth? You’re going to see all of it."

I followed him down the winding stone staircase into the basement level. The air grew colder, smelling of damp concrete and ozone. Two guards armed with submachine guns stood outside a reinforced steel door. They snapped to attention as Adrien approached, entering a six-digit code and pulling the lever down.

Inside, the room was brightly lit by harsh fluorescent bulbs. In the center sat Vanessa Cole.

She didn't look like the glamorous corporate consultant who had smiled politely at me at charity galas. Her silk blouse was torn, her blonde hair matted with sweat, and heavy steel cuffs bound her wrists to an iron table anchored into the floor.

When the door opened, she looked up, her blue eyes flashing with venom.

"Moretti," she spat, her voice raspy. "Brought your little pet to watch the slaughter?"

Adrien didn't even look at her face. He pulled out a steel chair, dusted it off with his hand, and motioned for me to sit. When I remained standing, he positioned himself between me and the table, his presence an absolute, immovable barrier.

"Tell her," Adrien commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze water.

Vanessa laughed—a high, brittle sound. "Tell her what? That your precious father-in-law sold her to you five years ago to clear his debt? Or that Lucian Vance has had a mole inside your inner circle since the day you slipped that ring on her finger?"

I felt the blood drain entirely from my face. I looked past Adrien’s broad shoulder, staring at Vanessa. "What did you say about my father?"

Adrien turned to me, his expression tightening with a sudden, rare look of dread. "Elena, don't listen to her—"

"Your father was a gambler, little girl," Vanessa hissed, leaning forward as far as her chains would allow. "He owed twenty million to the southern syndicates. Adrien bought the debt, bought your father's silence, and took you as collateral. You think this was an epic romance? You were the collateral that kept your family from being fed to the harbor sharks!"

The room began to spin. The air grew thick, suffocating. I looked at Adrien, searching his eyes for the lie, begging him silently to tell me she was insane, that she was lying to break us apart.