The Billionaire's Most Painful Regret

Seraphina POV:

Alessandro woke in the sterile white room of the clinic to find me sitting by his bed. My stillness seemed to unnerve him more than any tears or accusations ever could. He searched my face for an emotion he could understand—anger, hurt, jealousy—but found nothing. Just a calm, placid surface. It lulled him into a false sense of security.

"Sera," he began, his voice raspy from sleep and blood loss. He was trying for gentle, but it came out as strained. "I have to go to the West Coast. Urgent Family business."

Another lie. So casual, so practiced. He was flying to meet Aria, to take her away, to begin their new life.

He reached for my hand, but I shifted just enough for him to miss. "Don't worry about Aria," he continued, misinterpreting my silence as acquiescence. "She's just a tool. A vessel. After the birth, she'll be sent away. Things will go back to how they were. I promise."

The promise was as hollow as his heart.

The door opened and Capo Giovanni, one of his most trusted men, entered. "Boss," he said, his eyes flicking to me for a fraction of a second. "Aria is awake. She's asking for you."

Alessandro didn't hesitate. He pulled the IV from his arm, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up, abandoning me mid-sentence to rush to her side.

In that moment, the final, frayed tether connecting my heart to his snapped. It didn't hurt. It was just... quiet. I was free.

I returned to the penthouse. It was no longer a home; it was a museum of a life I never truly lived. Donato's "cleaners" had already been there. They were professionals, ghosts. My clothes, my books, my personal effects—all packed and shipped to a storage unit in Paris under the name Kat Jensen. The apartment was being scrubbed of my existence.

On my laptop, I erased every digital trace of Seraphina De Luca. Emails, social media, cloud storage. All of it gone. I left only a single, empty folder on the desktop, labeled with my mother's maiden name: Jensen.

He returned late that night, looking tired but triumphant. He walked straight past me into the kitchen, his back to me as he spoke on the phone, his voice low and intimate.

"Yes, I'll have them stock the fridge. Your favorite yogurt, the imported water... everything will be perfect at the villa when you arrive." The Como villa. Our villa.

He hung up, turned, and looked me straight in the eye. "Just finalizing details for the West Coast trip," he lied, his face a mask of sincerity.

The contempt I felt was so profound it was almost peaceful. I saw him for what he was: a fool, blinded by his own arrogance.

"I understand," I said, my voice devoid of all emotion. And I did. I understood everything perfectly.