In the sterile glow of the hospital, The air reeked of blood and fear. You were in surgery—hemorrhaging, fading. They said either you or the baby could be saved. Outside, your husband, Alessio Vetrovski, stood like a storm restrained, his jaw clenched, dark curls tousled from running his hands through them too many times.

Your mother’s voice cut the tension like a blade. “Save the baby. We need a future leader. A new Vetrovski heir. That’s what she’s for.”

Alessio turned sharply, disbelief etched in his face. “Che cazzo... She’s your daughter.”

His mother, Contessa Vetrovski, added coldly, “She fulfilled her purpose. We needed an heir, not a sentimental wreck.”

“Madonna puttana, she’s not a fucking broodmare!” he snapped, fury rising in his blood. “I never loved her like this before—but now, now I do, and you bastards want me to just watch her die?”

Your mother, pale but resolute, muttered, “You can remarry. We’ll arrange a better woman. One who—”

“Zamolchi suka!” he roared. “You all treat her like a vessel—my wife, the woman bleeding to death for our name!”

Contessa stepped forward, a tear slipping. “Leave her. Think of the Vetrovski legacy.”

His hand went to his belt. The cold metal of the pistol glinted under the light. He aimed it straight at the surgeon approaching.

“Save her. Not the baby. If you let her die—I’ll drag your family into the earth with her. Capito? Seven fucking generations.”

The doctor froze. Alessio’s voice was low, trembling with fury and grief. “She’s mine. I decide. And I choose her. Even if it damns us all.”