Chapter 29

Chapter 29
Isabella's POV
The first light of dawn filtered through the mansion's tall windows as I prepared their morning ritual. I pulled espresso shots through the vintage Gaggia machine, frothing milk to the exact temperature Marco preferred, arranging fresh croissants on Salvatore family china.
This is my life now. Serving breakfast to the man who destroyed me.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Three years ago, Marco would have made me breakfast in bed, his hands gentle as he traced patterns on my bare skin. Now those same hands controlled every aspect of my existence.
I carried the silver tray toward the dining room, where Marco and Sigrid sat at the mahogany table like a perfect society couple. The morning light caught the diamonds in her engagement ring—my engagement ring.
"Buongiorno," Marco said as I entered with the silver tray. He didn't look up from his Wall Street Journal.
"Your cappuccino," I set the Waterford crystal cup before him.
Sigrid looked up from her phone, blue eyes scanning my face. She wore a La Perla silk robe that probably cost more than my father's monthly rent.
"You look terrible, bella," she said with false concern. "Pale as death. Are you feeling alright?"
Before I could answer, my stomach lurched. I pressed my hand to my mouth, but the retching came in waves.
Not here. Not in front of them.
"Madonna santa," Marco muttered, rising from his chair. "What's wrong with you?"
"I—" Another wave hit, cutting off my words. I gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white against the mahogany.
Sigrid's voice cut through my misery like a blade. "She looks exactly like a pregnant woman."
The words hit me like ice water. Pregnant. The possibility I'd been trying not to think about for weeks.
"You should see Dr. Moretti," Marco said, his voice carrying absolute authority. "Today."
"Like you care," I managed between gasps, finally getting my stomach under control.
The look that flashed across Marco's face was unreadable—something between concern and calculation. But before he could respond, my stomach rebelled again.
This time, I couldn't control the direction.
The contents of my stomach splattered across Sigrid's pristine silk robe, turning the cream-colored fabric into a map of my misery. Her scream of disgust echoed off the marble walls.
"You disgusting bitch!" she shrieked, leaping from her chair. "This is La Perla! Do you have any idea how much this costs?"
More than my dignity, apparently.
"I need to—" Sigrid couldn't finish the sentence, too focused on the damage to her precious robe. She fled toward the guest bathroom, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and outrage.
Marco watched her go, then turned those dark eyes back to me. "Go clean yourself up. We'll discuss this later."

The servants' bathroom was a far cry from the marble luxury of the main house, but it was private. And right now, privacy was exactly what I needed.
My hands shook as I reached into the small cabinet where I'd hidden the pregnancy test. I'd bought it yesterday during my supervised trip to the pharmacy with Connor, slipping it into my pocket while he was distracted.
Two minutes. That's all it takes to confirm my worst fear.
The test felt heavy in my trembling hands as I read the instructions. Simple enough. The waiting was agony. I sat on the cold bathroom floor, watching the test window like it held the secrets of the universe.
Then the results appeared.
Two bright red lines.
Positive.
The test slipped from my fingers, hitting the tile floor. I stared at it, hoping I'd misread, hoping this was some cruel joke.
But the lines didn't change. Two clear, unmistakable lines.
I'm pregnant.
The sight of those two red lines brought back a memory I'd tried so hard to bury. Three years ago, when Marco and I were happy, when the future looked bright instead of bloody.
"This belonged to my great-grandmother," he'd whispered, fastening the antique silver cross around my neck. "It's been passed down through four generations of Salvatore women. Someday, I want to give it to our daughter."
"Our daughter?" I'd laughed, touching the delicate chain. "Awfully presumptuous, don't you think?"
"Our children, then," he'd corrected, his hands settling on my waist. "Sons to carry on the family name, daughters to inherit our mother's strength."
"You'll be a wonderful father," I'd told him, meaning every word.
"And you'll be a perfect mother. The kind who reads bedtime stories and never lets anyone hurt our babies."
But that was before. Before everything went to hell. Now here I was, carrying a child that would never know its father's name.
A knock at the door shattered the memory.
"Isabella?" Marco's voice, muffled by wood but unmistakably commanding. "Open the door."
Panic flooded my system. I grabbed the pregnancy test, looking wildly around the small bathroom for somewhere to hide it. The waste basket.
I threw the test deep into the garbage, burying it under tissues and cotton balls just as Marco's impatience reached its limit.
The door opened without permission. Marco filled the frame, his dark eyes scanning the small space like a predator checking for threats.
"What were you doing in here?" His voice was deceptively calm.
"Nothing." The lie came too quickly, too high-pitched.
Marco's gaze sharpened. He stepped into the bathroom, his presence making the already small space feel suffocating. "What did you have in your hand when I came in?"
"Nothing," I repeated, but my voice shook.
Marco moved to the Italian leather chair in the corner, sitting down with casual authority. He spread his legs in that way that commanded attention.
"Given your current situation," he said, his voice deadly calm, "you'd better get started on providing the Salvatore family with an heir. The sooner you conceive, the sooner this arrangement can be concluded."
The words hit like a physical blow. He was talking about the deal with Sigrid. About using my body to give her the child she couldn't have.
"I can't do it," I cut him off. "Being with you for even a second makes me sick."
I braced myself for his fury. Any other time, words like that would have sent Marco into a rage. His jaw would tighten, his voice would drop to that deadly whisper.
But instead, something flickered in his dark eyes—hurt, quickly masked by calculation. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm.
"Then what do you want?" The question came out measured, controlled—almost gentle. "What are your conditions for cooperation?"