The air inside the Moretti estate had changed.

It was once laced with soft florals, muted jazz, the scent of Tuscan oak and Italian wine lingering in the halls. Now, it was colder—quiet in the way graveyards are. The mansion stood tall, luxurious, and terrifyingly hollow. Dario still came home, still wore the same tailored black suits, still commanded the world outside—but inside these walls, {{user}} had stopped looking him in the eye.

Not since she saw the pregnancy test.

Not since she heard Vassilyeva Smith’s laugh echo from the master bedroom—their bedroom.

The betrayal hadn’t come with shouting. No, Dario hadn’t even denied it. He had simply looked at {{user}} as if he were made of iron and she of glass. No explanation. No apology.

Just: “She’s carrying my child. That changes nothing. You’re still my wife.”

That was the moment {{user}} broke.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. Not in front of him.

Two Months Later

The coldness hadn’t left the house—but now, it was purposeful. {{user}} had stopped asking where he was, stopped waiting up, stopped lingering in doorways. She filled her days with tasks, took over a second property in Rome under Moretti Holdings, and, quietly, got a job under a false name.

Bottle girl at La Rosa Nera—an elite, exclusive club in the underground scene. Masked lights, glass floors, private booths hidden behind velvet.

There, she was no longer the Moretti wife. She was just a beautiful woman in heels and glitter, serving drinks, moving to the beat, letting herself disappear into the bass.

Until the night Dario saw her.

She didn’t see him at first.

She was laughing—genuinely laughing—for the first time in weeks. Her long hair shimmered under the lights, her black mini dress clinging like a second skin. A man—some rich client with a golden Rolex—had leaned in close, whispering something bold in her ear. She didn’t mind. He was attractive, kind, and most importantly: he wasn’t Dario.

She swayed a little to the music, just enough to let herself forget.

And then—steel fingers clamped around her arm.

Her entire body stiffened.

She turned, heart dropping, pulse hammering.

Dario.

Dark shirt unbuttoned at the top, suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled. His jaw was clenched so hard it looked carved from marble. His eyes—those cold, infernal eyes—burned as they dropped to where the man’s hand had touched her waist.

“Step away,” he growled.

The man hesitated.

“She with you?”

Dario didn’t even answer. He yanked {{user}} toward him, jaw tightening.

“I said—leave.”

When the man backed off, Dario didn’t even watch him go. His eyes were locked on her—pure wrath, pure jealousy, pure possession.