Betrayed For A Fake Heir: The Wife's Exit

The lights in the trauma unit were blinding. White, sterile, and unforgiving. The glare stung my retinas, forcing a headache behind my eyes. A doctor was busy binding my torso, his movements efficient but firm. "Broken rib, bruised lung," he muttered, checking the tightness of the bandages. "You're lucky to be alive, Mrs. Vitiello." Lucky. The word tasted like bile. Suddenly, the door banged open, slamming against the wall. Dante strode in. He looked frantic, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes wild. I scanned his shirt for injuries, but it was stained with... nothing. Mia wasn't bleeding. "She needs blood," he barked. He wasn't looking at me. He was focused entirely on the doctor. "The blood bank is critically low on O-negative. She has a clotting disorder. We need a direct transfusion. Now." The doctor frowned, glancing down at my chart. "Mrs. Vitiello is O-negative, yes, but she's in no condition-" "She'll do it," Dante cut in. Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were hard, cold stones, devoid of any warmth. "Do it, Serena." A laugh bubbled up in my chest. It was a wet, wheezing sound that scraped against my bruised lung. "No," I said. Dante stalked to the side of my bed. He leaned down, his large hands gripping the metal rails, effectively trapping me. "This isn't a request," he whispered, his voice a lethal drop of poison. "That is my child. You will save him." "You left me in the dirt," I whispered back, the memory sharp as glass. "I came back for you." "An hour later. With a gardener." "Does that matter right now? She is dying." "She's lying, Dante." "She is bleeding!" he shouted, the veins in his neck straining. He signaled sharply to the nurse. "Hook her up." I tried to pull my arm away, a weak attempt at rebellion. Dante grabbed my wrist. The same wrist he had bruised at the auction. He held it out for the nurse, exposing the vein. "Don't fight me on this, Serena. Or I will make you regret it." The needle slid in with a sharp pinch. I watched the dark red liquid flow through the tube. My life force. Leaving me. Going to her. It drained me, pulling the energy right out of my marrow. My vision blurred at the edges. The sharp pain in my rib became a dull throb, nothing compared to the agony shredding my heart. "Four hundred milliliters," the nurse announced. "That's enough," the doctor said firmly. "Her blood pressure is dropping too fast." Dante didn't wait. He grabbed the bag of warm blood like it was holy water and sprinted out of the room. He didn't say thank you. He didn't check my vitals. He didn't even look back. I lay there for an hour, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Then, I forced myself up. I dragged my IV pole with me, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum. I walked down the hall to the VIP suite. The door was ajar. Mia was sitting up in bed, eating a cup of red gelatin. She looked fine. She looked glowing, her cheeks flushed with color. Dante was sitting in the chair next to her, his head buried in his hands, praying. Then I saw it. Wrapped around Mia's slender wrist. Black onyx beads. A silver crucifix catching the light. Dante's Rosary. He had sworn on his mother's grave that he would never take it off. He said it was his connection to God. His ultimate protection. And now it was on the wrist of the woman who had just drained my veins dry. Mia saw me hovering in the doorway. She lifted her wrist, deliberately letting the beads catch the fluorescent light. She smirked. Dante looked up. He saw me standing there, pale as a ghost, clutching my side to hold myself together. "Serena, go back to bed," he said wearily. I looked at the Rosary. Then I looked at him. A nurse walked by with a clipboard, pausing when she saw me. "Excuse me, ma'am? I need to update your emergency contact info. Are you married?" I looked Dante Vitiello dead in the eyes. "No," I said, my voice hollow. His eyes widened. "I'm single."