The CEO's Billion-Dollar Divorce Regret
My husband, a mafia underboss and a brilliant neurosurgeon, left me to die on the side of a highway in the pouring rain. He had to rush to another woman, his true love, who'd had a minor car accident.
As I lay bleeding on a gurney after being hit by a truck, I learned I was eight weeks pregnant. But my hope was short-lived. The hospital was out of my blood type, and the only reserve had been set aside by my husband for his lover, just in case she had "post-op complications" from her cosmetic procedure.
Over the phone, I heard the nurse beg him. "This woman, and your... this baby will die!"
His reply was ice. "Isabella is my priority."
He let our child die to save her from a minor risk. The ledger where I'd been keeping score of his sins finally hit zero. I was free.
Two years later, I've built a new life, a new career, and found a new love with a man who cherishes me. I'm no longer the broken wife, but a celebrated architect, nominated for a prestigious award.
And tonight, at the awards ceremony, he found me. He got on his knees in the middle of the ballroom, begging for a second chance.
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Chapter 4
Seraphina POV:
I woke to a world of blinding white and a pain so sharp it seared through me.
A voice was shouting, distant. "Massive internal bleeding! Get her to an OR, now!"
I was on a gurney, being rushed down a hallway. The ceiling lights blurred into a single, painful streak.
"Hang on, ma'am," a kind voice said near my ear. "We're going to take care of you."
A different voice, more distant, barked out orders. "Page Dr. Evans. And check her vitals again. She's eight weeks pregnant."
Pregnant.
The word sliced through the fog of my pain. A tiny, impossible flicker of joy ignited in the center of my terror. A baby. Our baby.
"Blood pressure is dropping! We need O-negative, now!" a nurse yelled.
"The bank is nearly empty!" another replied, her voice tight with panic. "Dr. Santos just used the last six units for a VIP patient in plastics."
Dr. Santos. The name snagged on something in my mind. Dante.
The nurse with the kind voice was on the phone. "Dante, it's Chloe. I've got a Jane Doe here, a car crash victim, and she's critical. She's pregnant. We're losing them both. I need you to authorize a diversion from the private reserve. It's the only way."
I could hear his voice, tinny and impatient over the speakerphone. "I can't. Those reserves are for Isabella. She might have post-op complications."
"Dante, she's stable! This woman, and your... this baby will die!" Chloe pleaded.
"Isabella is my priority," he said, his voice a blade of ice. "Do not contact me on this line again."
The line went dead.
I understood. For a potential minor complication for Isabella, Dante had just signed my death warrant. And our child's.
A faint, fluttering sensation deep inside me, like a tiny bird's wing brushing against my soul. A hello and a goodbye, all in one.
Then, darkness.
I woke up. The searing agony had faded to a dull, heavy ache. The surgery was over. Chloe, the kind nurse, was sitting by my bed.
"You're stable," she said softly, her eyes full of a pity I couldn't bear. "The surgery was a success."
She took a breath. "I'm so sorry. The baby... the baby didn't make it."
The words hung in the sterile air. I felt them, but they didn't land. I was already hollow.
"Isabella?" I asked, my voice a dry rasp. "Is she safe?"
Chloe's face tightened. "Her... minor cosmetic procedure was a success, yes. Dr. Santos ensured she had the very best of everything."
A bitter smile touched my lips. Of course he did.
I reached for the nightstand. For my purse. For the black leather ledger inside. With a hand that felt disconnected from my own body, I wrote the final entry.
-5 points: He let our child die to save her.
The score was zero.
Every bond, every memory, every last, foolish hope I had for Dante Santos was severed. It was all gone.
That night, I signed my own discharge papers against medical advice. I went back to the empty house.
On his pillow, where his head would lie, I left two things.
The signed divorce agreement.
And the black ledger, opened to the very last page.
I picked up the one small suitcase I had already packed, walked through the silent, cavernous rooms one last time, and pulled the front door shut behind me.
I didn't look back.