Chapter 29 Chapter 29 – The Doctor’s Call

Chapter 29 Chapter 29 – The Doctor’s Call
Dante

Her little shopping trip is a transparent farce, and I find the sheer, childish audacity of it entertaining.

I watch on the security feed as Nico follows her through Bergdorf’s, a mountain of granite trailing a hummingbird.

She flits from rack to rack, feigning interest in silks and cashmeres, all while her eyes dart around, scanning for an opportunity, a blind spot. She’s hunting for a crack in the cage. It’s adorable. And utterly futile.

My new rule, that she must initiate sex, has her backed into a corner, and watching her scramble for an escape route is a welcome diversion. The clock is ticking, and her desperation is making her unpredictable.

When she returns, she sweeps into the house with an armful of bags, a mask of bored triumph on her face. It’s a performance for the staff, for the cameras, for me. She thinks she’s established a precedent, a legitimate reason to leave the grounds without me.

Even if she didn’t manage to find what she was hoping for today, I know she’s imagining that over time Nico will stop watching her like a hawk and she’ll manage to grab a burner phone to smuggle into the house like contraband.

I pour myself a scotch and watch her on the monitor in my study. She disappears into our suite, and I hope to see her try on some of the clothes she has no interest in. She has good taste. The bags were screened by my men before they even made it into the car. She’ll never get an unauthorized acquisition through the front door.

My phone rings, the sound cutting through the quiet of the room. I glance at the caller ID. Dr. Finch. Finally.

I let it ring three times before answering, a small assertion of control. “Cardello.”

“Mr. Cardello,” the doctor’s voice is professionally inscrutable. “I have the results of your panels.”

“And?” I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light fracture.

“Yours are exemplary. Motility, count, morphology, all well above the mean for a man of any age. There are no issues on your side.”

“Good,” I say, cutting through the unexpected ass-kissing. “Tell me about my wife.”

There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line. A rustle of paper. The tell-tale hesitation of a man who knows he’s delivering sensitive, potentially dangerous, information.

“Mrs. Cardello is also in excellent health,” Dr. Finch begins, his tone carefully neutral. “Her hormone levels are strong, ovulation is regular, and there are no physiological impediments to conception. She is, by all metrics, an ideal candidate for pregnancy.”

I wait. He’s building a foundation of good news before delivering the payload. It’s a coward’s tactic, but a common one when dealing with men like me.

“However,” he continues, and his voice drops a fraction, “There is an anomaly in her bloodwork. We detected a significant presence of a synthetic progestin. Levonorgestrel, specifically.”

The name of the chemical is irrelevant. The implication is a gunshot in a silent room. My suspicion solidifies into fact.

“Explain,” I say. The single word is a command, layered with ice.

“It’s a hormonal agent commonly used in contraceptives,” he says, still avoiding the direct accusation. “It works by preventing ovulation and altering the uterine lining. Its presence at these levels indicates a consistent, daily dosage. It’s creating what I would term… hormonal interference.”

I stare at the monitor. Mya is pacing our room now, the shopping bags discarded on the bed. She’s a caged tigress, all restless energy and contained fury. And lies.

“So, you’re telling me,” I say, my voice a low, chilling whisper, “That my wife is actively taking medication to prevent the one thing I want from her?”

“The bloodwork is conclusive, Mr. Cardello. There is an external agent present that is counteracting her natural fertility.”

Betrayal is too small a word. Too emotional. This isn’t a lover’s quarrel. This is a breach of contract. A fundamental violation of the terms she agreed to in order to save her father’s life. She gave me her vow, and she’s been negating it every single day with a tiny, white pill.

She’s been stealing from me. Not money, like her pathetic father, but something far more valuable. A legacy. An heir. My future.

The amusement I felt just minutes ago evaporates, replaced by a fury so cold it feels like a void. The heat of my anger burns itself out, leaving behind a glacial calm, a clarity of purpose that is absolute and lethal. She thinks this is a game of wills. She doesn’t understand that she’s just declared war.

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful. Send the full report to my private email,” I say, and hang up before he can reply.

I set my glass down on the polished desk with a quiet click. I don’t smash it. I don’t raise my voice. The rage inside me is too pure for such a theatrical display. It requires a more methodical, more precise expression.

She has the pills somewhere in this house. Somewhere she thinks is clever. Somewhere she believes I would never look.

I pick up the phone again. “Nico, my study. Now.”

My enforcer enters less than thirty seconds later, his massive frame filling the doorway. He senses the shift in the atmosphere immediately. His eyes are steady, waiting.

“Mya has been taking contraceptives,” I state, my voice devoid of all emotion. “They have to be hidden somewhere in our suite. I want them found.”

Nico’s expression doesn’t change, but I see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knows the gravity of this offense.

“I want a complete, methodical search of her belongings,” I continue, my voice low and precise.

“Start with the obvious. Her luggage, the clothes from today, her purses. Then move to the less obvious. Check the lining of every coat, the bottom of every drawer, inside every shoe. Take the books off her shelves and shake them out. Check the casings of her cosmetics, the boxes of her tampons, the hollowed-out leg of a fucking chair if you have to. She’s smart, so the hiding place will be smart. Be smarter.”

“Should I do it now, boss? She’s in the room.”

“No,” I say. “Wait until she comes down for dinner. I want her to believe everything is normal. I want her to sit across from me, seething about her new daily duty, completely unaware that I know about her treason. I want to watch her lie with every breath she takes.”

The cruelty of it is a balm to the cold fire in my gut. She’s made a fool of me. She’s broken our pact. The punishment for that will be biblical, but first, I need the evidence. I need to hold the proof in my hand.

The order to send one of my men to maim Gerald Evans is on the tip of my tongue, but sanity prevails. If I kill him, I’ll have no leverage. Sending a strong message may be called for if Mya doesn’t fall in line very soon, but I can wait a few more days.

Her training is coming along so nicely. I don’t want to derail it just yet. I’ll use other methods for now and save her worthless father’s appendages as a last resort.

“Find them, Nico,” I say, my voice dropping to a near whisper. “Tear her world apart piece by piece until you do. Be silent. Be invisible. She will not know you were there until I decide to show her what you’ve found.”

Nico nods once, a silent acknowledgment of the order, and backs out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

I turn back to the monitor. Mya’s stopped pacing. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.

She’s marshaling her defenses, steeling herself for tonight. She thinks the battle will be about whether she can swallow her pride and seduce me before midnight. She’s preparing for a skirmish over dignity.

She has no idea I’m about to level her entire world. The calm before the storm is a pleasure I rarely get to savor. This time, I’ll drink it down to the dregs.