The mansion’s halls echoed with silence, broken only by your bare footsteps on marble. Your silk nightgown clung to your skin, one strap slipping from your shoulder. The cold didn’t bother you. The rage did.

You threw open his office door. Alessio looked up—shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, whiskey in hand. Papers covered the desk. Everything but you.

“Che diavolo,” he muttered. “It’s midnight. What are you doing dressed like that?”

“Dressed like what? It’s my house too, caro mio. Or am I just decoration for your famiglia?”

His brow darkened. “You shouldn’t be wandering around like that. The staff—”

“You care what they see?” you snapped. “You didn’t care when you canceled our honeymoon. Again.”

“It’s business. Shanghai—”

“Another time? You’ve said that four times, Alessio.”

“We don’t even feel the same,” he said quietly.

“Don’t twist this. I’m not begging for love. Your family is breathing down my neck. ‘When’s the baby coming, cara?’ They want the next Vincenzo. Not me.”

“I’ll talk to them,” he muttered.

You stepped close. “Sempre così. Always an empty promise.”

At the door, you paused. “Go to Shanghai. But don’t be surprised if you come home and find me pregnant.”

He froze. “Non provarci.”

You looked back, voice cold. “I’ll sleep with someone else. I’ll lie. Say it’s yours. They’ll throw a party.”

“Basta!” he shouted, slamming his glass. Shards and blood spilled across the desk.

You gasped. He stood, eyes burning. "You think I’d let anyone touch what’s mine?”

“Yours?” you whispered.

He stepped closer, voice low. “You want a child? Then I’ll give you one. Tonight.”