My Ex-Husband's Regret, My Freedom

Aria Vitiello POV:

I pushed open the heavy mahogany double doors of the formal dining room. The massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling blazed with blinding light. I had personally picked out that chandelier in Milan three years ago. Now, the harsh glare felt like a spotlight in an interrogation room.

Dante sat at the head of the long, twenty-seat dining table. He was wearing a loose linen shirt. His eyes were half-open, the pupils still slightly blown out, a residual dullness lingering from whatever Gia had fed him.

Gia was not standing by the wall with the other servants. She was sitting comfortably in the main guest chair to Dante’s immediate right.

Beside her sat seven-year-old Leo. He was holding a heavy silver steak knife, dragging the jagged edge back and forth across the polished antique wood, leaving deep, ugly scratches.

I forced my facial muscles to remain entirely blank. I suppressed the bile rising in my throat and walked with slow, measured steps toward the far end of the table, taking an empty seat as far away from them as possible.

Dante slowly lifted his heavy eyelids. He stared at me. "Why were you hiding in your room all morning?" he demanded, his voice cold and hard.

I lowered my eyes to the empty porcelain plate in front of me. "I had a migraine," I said, keeping my tone perfectly flat.

Gia let out a loud, theatrical sigh. "Oh, poor thing," she cooed, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "Are you sure it's just a headache? Maybe it's because you're getting older. Women do get so frail when their bodies start failing them."

I didn't react. I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap, staring at the intricate lace pattern of the tablecloth.

Leo suddenly dropped the silver knife with a loud clatter. He leaned forward, aiming a twisted, malicious grin directly at me.

"Mommy, are you sick?" Leo yelled. His voice was high and clear, echoing off the dining room walls.

The word *Mommy* stabbed into my eardrum like a poisoned needle. It was a calculated, vicious mockery of my barren womb.

My fingers instantly clamped together, my nails digging so fiercely into my palms that I felt warm blood welling up.

Dante heard the boy. He didn't reprimand him for the disrespect. Instead, a sick, satisfied smile twitched at the corner of Dante’s mouth.

"Leo is such a good, thoughtful boy," Dante praised, running a hand through Leo's hair. He shifted his dead eyes back to me. "You should feel honored he calls you that."

My stomach cramped violently. My abdominal muscles locked up in pure revulsion.

Gia stood up gracefully. She walked over to the serving cart and picked up a large, ornate porcelain bowl filled with steaming, bubbling tomato bisque. Heat radiated off the thick red liquid.

She handed the bowl down to Leo. "Go on, sweetie," she urged gently. "Bring Mommy her soup."

Leo took the bowl with both hands. He flinched slightly, his brow furrowing because the ceramic was so hot. But the malice in his dark eyes only grew brighter.

"Drink it all," Dante commanded me, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Leo helped the chef make it this morning. Do not insult him."

I watched Leo walk toward me. Every muscle in my body pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

I flicked my eyes to the antique grandfather clock in the corner. Two-thirty. Thirty minutes until the thunderstorm. Thirty minutes until Luca pulled the plug on the cameras.

*Just endure,* I told myself. *Thirty minutes.*

Leo reached my side of the table. He stood right next to my chair, holding the boiling soup up toward me.

I unclasped my hands and reached out to take the bowl, my eyes locked sharply on his small fingers.

Right before my fingertips brushed the hot ceramic base, Leo stopped. He looked me dead in the eye and flashed a terrifying, unnatural smile.

Then, he violently snapped his wrists downward.

He dumped the entire bowl of boiling soup directly at me.

The thick, red liquid launched into the air, forming a lethal, scalding arc aimed straight at my lap and my left arm.

My pupils contracted to pinpoints. Survival instinct took over. I threw my weight backward, pushing off the table edge.

The heavy wooden chair scraped against the floorboards with a deafening screech, but gravity and momentum were faster.

I watched the red soup pour down, screaming a desperate countdown in my head.