The Heir He Burned Twice

In my dreams, I returned to the first time I met Lorenzo.

It was at an art auction. He stood before a da Vinci, his features sharp, his eyes the color of amber. His lethal power and authority had already enthralled the city's countless socialites.

I was one of them. After one glance, I became obsessed.

Back then, I was just an architectural designer from a middle-class family, and he paid me no mind. I poured everything into my work, earning accolades that finally put me on his radar. Under the guise of celebrating a new commission, I invited him to a private concert and finally earned a flicker of interest in his gaze.

I seized the opportunity, pursuing him with everything I had: meticulously crafted architectural models, rare artworks, and antique jewelry. He finally accepted my advances.

I thought it was the beginning of happiness. It was the start of a nightmare.

After our marriage, he grew distant. Any date could be canceled for "family business." I never suspected a thing until our wedding, when I accidentally saw the surveillance footage from his office. Isabella had compiled a decade's worth of call logs—every feigned crisis, every trembling voice that summoned him to her side. All the times he had canceled on me, he had been with her. He would stay by her bedside all night to soothe "nightmares," calm her "fragile nerves" with expensive gifts, and drop everything to defend her at the slightest offense.

Even more pathetic, I lacked the courage to confront him, terrified he would leave.

In my last life, when Isabella was "shot," he had been unnervingly calm. I actually thought I had won. He lavished me and the baby with attention, pouring all his affection on me. That sudden love blinded me completely. It wasn't until he killed me after I gave birth that I understood: his affection had just been the prelude to his revenge.

When I woke up, I was in a small clinic. Beside me was not Lorenzo, but a stranger.

"You're awake?" A middle-aged man leaned over me. He didn't have the air of a gangster—just the smell of antiseptic, an unlicensed doctor from the poor side of town. "I live in the apartment below you. Saw the explosion, went up to check, and found you on the floor, bleeding. Brought you here myself." He clenched his jaw. "Those bastards from the Family were all crowded around some other woman, didn't even give you a second look."

I struggled to move. When my hand touched my stomach, I froze. It was flat.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes filled with sympathy. "The baby… he was already gone when I got to you."

A bitter smile touched my lips. "It's not your fault. I know." I paused. "Thank you for saving me."

A stranger could see I was dying, while my husband of five years wouldn't spare me a glance.

Seeing my breakdown, the stranger, Joel, was more furious than I was. "What the hell is wrong with that Family? A pregnant woman is bleeding out, and they do nothing?" he growled. "If I hadn't gone up, you would have died! Doesn't your husband care at all? Give me his number, I'll contact him. You shouldn't be alone."

I shook my head. A hoarse whisper escaped my lips. "The child's father is dead to me."

Joel's face softened with sympathy. He offered to stay and care for me until I recovered, but I refused. I transferred the medical fees to his account and insisted he leave.

Though he left, the storm on the underworld's private channels was just beginning.

The topic "Explosion at Castello Heir's Penthouse" rocketed to the top of every trending list. Neighbors had uploaded photos of me—crawling from the wreckage, covered in blood, while the family's Soldati formed a protective ring around Isabella.

The public channels were in an uproar. Thousands of comments demanded an investigation, damning the Soldati for ignoring a pregnant woman and her unborn child.

I scrolled through the furious comments, feeling this was far too light a punishment for Lorenzo. I was about to send a message when a smug photo from Isabella arrived.

She was in this very hospital, one floor below me. In the photo, Lorenzo was feeding her a bowl of consommé with a silver spoon, blowing on each spoonful, his eyes as gentle as I had ever seen them.

I had seen countless intimate images of them. They no longer stirred a thing in me.

I closed the chat and dialed Lorenzo's number. He answered on the fifth ring, his voice thick with impatience.

"You still have the nerve to call?" he roared. "What do you want? To see if Isabella is dead? Sorry to disappoint you—I saved her! She's alive and well, recovering in a suite one floor below you!"

"Aurelia, I've known you for five years, and I never took you for a murderer. Do you realize what you've done? You tried to kill her! Are you insane?"

"I'm giving you one hour. Come down and apologize to her. Otherwise, our lawyers will handle our annulment."

Before I could speak, Isabella's practiced, tearful voice came through the phone.

"Lorenzo… don't blame her. It's all my fault. If she needs to say I started the fire, then let her. Just don't argue with her. A pregnant woman can't handle the stress."

Lorenzo let out a long, disappointed sigh. "You're too kind. That's why she dares to walk all over you. We grew up together—in the same family. Who does Aurelia think she is? What right does she have to lay a hand on you?"

"Don't worry. This time, I'm going to teach her a lesson she'll never forget."

As they sank into their hypocritical performance, I spoke clearly into the phone.

"Fine. Let's get an annulment. I agree. I'll have my lawyers prepare the papers. You just have to sign."