The paperwork has someone else's signature. I stare at the form in my hands, the hospital corridor noise fading to white static. My name is printed at the top—Isabelle Romano—but the signature at the bottom is all wrong. The loops are too tight, the slant too aggressive. I've signed my name a thousand times, and this isn't it. "Mrs. Romano?" The nurse shifts her weight, clearly wanting to move on to her next patient. "If you could just confirm the discharge date—" "This says I had an abortion three days ago." The words come out flat. Factual. Because if I let any emotion into my voice right now, I'll start screaming. "Yes, the post-procedure follow-up is standard protocol—" "I'm twenty weeks pregnant." I press my free hand against my stomach, where the baby—my daughter, I've been calling her my daughter even though I don't know yet, won't know until today's anatomy scan—has been moving for three weeks now. Small flutters that feel like butterflies. "I'm here for my anatomy scan. Not a follow-up." The nurse's professional smile fractures. She reaches for the paperwork, her eyes scanning it with new urgency. "I—let me get Dr. Chen." She disappears through a door marked STAFF ONLY, leaving me alone with the forged signature and the slow, creeping realization that someone wanted me to believe I'd already lost this baby. My phone buzzes. Dante's name lights up the screen. I silence it. Dr. Chen appears two minutes later, a thin man in his fifties who won't quite meet my eyes. "Mrs. Romano, if we could speak in my office—" "Here is fine." He glances at the nurses station, where three women are now pretending not to watch us. "Perhaps somewhere more private—" "Who brought you this paperwork?" His jaw tightens. "Mrs. Romano—" "My husband?" The words taste like copper. "Did Dante bring you this paperwork?" The silence is answer enough. "He said you'd already undergone the procedure at a private clinic." Dr. Chen's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "He was very specific about the dates. And he made a generous donation to the hospital's new surgical wing—" "How generous?" "Two million dollars." The number sits between us like a body. "He said—" Dr. Chen clears his throat. "He said you were having difficulty accepting the loss. That you might be in denial. He asked us to handle the follow-up appointment with sensitivity." My daughter does a small flip inside me, as if she knows she was supposed to be gone. "Get out of my way." I push past him, heading for the elevator. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely press the button. The paperwork crumples in my fist—evidence of something, though I don't know what yet. Fraud. Conspiracy. The casual erasure of a pregnancy that's still very much happening. The elevator doors open. I step inside. My phone rings again. Not Dante this time. Viktor. Dante's right-hand man. The one who handles problems. I answer. "Mrs. Romano." His voice is cold, professional. The voice he uses before someone disappears. "I need you to stop making a scene at St. Catherine's. You're embarrassing the family." "How did you—" "Mr. Romano is in a board meeting. The succession vote is today. This is not the time for hysterics." The elevator descends. My reflection in the mirrored wall looks like a stranger—pale, shocked, still wearing the maternity dress I'd picked out this morning because I thought today would be about seeing my daughter's face on an ultrasound screen. "Only heirs without complications inherit," Viktor continues. "You understand what I'm saying?" I understand. The baby I'm carrying was supposed to be gone before today's scan. Before anyone could confirm she exists. Before she could become a complication. "Don't call me again," I whisper. I hang up before he can respond. The elevator opens onto the parking garage. I walk to my car on autopilot, my mind racing through the last three months. Every meal Dante insisted on making himself. Every vitamin he personally handed me. Every time he watched me swallow. I can't go home. I can't go to my mother—she'd call Dante before I finished the first sentence. But there's one person who's always been kind to me. One person in Dante's world who treated me like a human being instead of a trophy wife. Marco. Dante's younger brother. The one who warned me on my wedding day that the Romano family eats people like me alive, but smiled when he said it. The one who sends me books he thinks I'll like and never asks for anything in return. I drive across the city to his penthouse, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He answers the door in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, surprise flickering across his face when he sees me. "Isabelle? What—" "I need help." Something moves behind him. A woman steps into view, wearing a silk robe that barely conceals her swollen belly. She's at least six months along, maybe more. Her dark hair falls in waves over her shoulders, and her face— I know her face. Celeste. Dante's assistant. The one who always smiles too warmly when she hands him his coffee. The one who works late with him three nights a week. She's wearing a diamond ring on her left hand. The same setting as mine.