The Billionaire's Bride Has A Secret

Alessia's POV:

The Coashire Hotel's grand ballroom was dripping with crystal and the scent of old money. I arrived alone, a ghost in a midnight blue gown, and immediately saw them.

Marco was doting on Bianca, a glass of champagne already in her hand, his own possessively at the small of her back. Their intimacy was a public spectacle.

Whispers followed me as I moved through the room.

"That's her, Alessia Romano."

"I heard he's divorcing her. The other one-the blonde-is pregnant."

"She's just a tool, a pretty face to get an heir. He'll toss her aside once the baby is born."

The words were meant to be discreet, but in the tight-knit world of the Famiglias, secrets were currency.

Bianca heard them, too. Her face crumpled, and she staged a tearful display for Marco, clutching his arm.

To soothe her, he did the unthinkable.

He cleared his throat, his voice ringing out with an authority that instantly silenced the room.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming," he began, his eyes finding mine across the crowd. "And to put some rumors to rest. It's true that Alessia and I are divorcing. I will be marrying Bianca, and we will welcome our child as a legitimate Bellini heir."

The room erupted in hushed gasps.

Marco's face was ashen as he rushed to my side.

"It was a lie," he whispered frantically, his hand gripping my arm. "Just to placate her. She's hormonal. You know how it is. I have no intention of divorcing you."

I looked at him-this man who could build and break empires, yet was so easily played by a conniving girl.

"Liar," I said, the word soft, not meant for him, but for the room-and for myself.

Then I raised my voice, my tone cool and clear, carrying across the stunned silence. "My husband is telling the truth," I announced.

The authority in my voice was not a Bellini's; it was a Romano's.

"We are divorcing. Bianca is the future Mrs. Bellini."

I turned my gaze to the other wives, the women who had been whispering. "So please," I said, my voice dropping into an icy command, "do not treat her as a mere surrogate. You really wouldn't want to upset her."

The room fell completely silent.

Marco's face was a thundercloud.

"Are you angry?" he hissed, his grip tightening on my arm, his eyes wide with a desperate plea.

I gave him a serene, empty smile. "No. I'm helping her."

He slid into the seat beside me, visibly relieved. "Thank you for smoothing that over," he murmured, his voice low and placating. "I'll win that pendant for you. As compensation."

I offered him nothing. My gaze was already fixed on the stage, the unfolding drama of the auction a welcome distraction from the one playing out in our lives.

I watched as he bid extravagantly on a diamond necklace, a vintage watch, a pair of earrings-all for Bianca. The murmurs started again, this time about his lavish generosity to his new woman.

Finally, the pendant came up. A beautiful piece of imperial jade, almost identical to the one my mother had given me-the last tangible link to her memory.

The bidding was fierce.

Marco was relentless.

"Five million dollars!" the auctioneer cried. "Sold, to Mr. Marco Bellini!"

A wave of relief washed over me, so potent it almost made me dizzy. I could finally take what was mine, this tangible piece of my mother's memory, and leave this life behind for good.