Chapter 8
*(Luca's POV)*
The episode hit me in the car. Full force.
My driver knew the signs — he pulled over immediately, locked the doors, and waited. I gripped the leather seat until my nails tore through it, my vision swimming black and red.
*Evelyn Evelyn Evelyn—*
Her name was the anchor. It had always been the anchor. But now when I reached for her in my mind, there was nothing. No warmth. No calm. Just a void where she used to be.
The episode lasted forty-three minutes.
When it passed, I was drenched in sweat, my shirt torn, my knuckles bleeding from punching the car door. My driver handed me a water bottle without making eye contact.
"Take me home," I rasped.
But the penthouse wasn't home anymore. It was a mausoleum.
I collapsed on the couch — the same couch where Evelyn used to wait up for me, reading her medical textbooks — and stared at the ceiling.
She'd looked at me like I was nothing. Less than nothing. A stranger. An inconvenience.
The same way I'd looked at her for three years.
My phone buzzed. A message from my investigator:
*[Paternity results back. Sealed file. Call when ready.]*
I wasn't ready. But I called anyway.
"Give me the results."
A pause. Then: "Mr. Castellano... the pregnancy hormone levels in Ms. Laurent's recent medical records don't match the timeline she provided. We also obtained pharmacy records — she purchased synthetic hCG online six weeks before the gala announcement."
The room tilted.
"Are you saying—"
"There is no pregnancy, sir. There never was."
I sat very still for a very long time.
Bianca had faked it. Faked the pregnancy to keep me. To push Evelyn out. And I'd let her — celebrated it, even, on the cover of a goddamn magazine.
Every single moment of the last six months rearranged itself in my mind. Bianca needing the VIP ward. Bianca answering Evelyn's calls. Bianca in my home, in my bed, in my wife's space — orchestrating, manipulating, dismantling my marriage piece by piece.
And I'd handed her the tools to do it.
I drove to the guest house where Bianca was staying — one of my properties, of course — and let myself in without knocking.
She was in the living room, sipping tea, flipping through a wedding magazine. She looked up with that practiced, pretty smile.
"Luca! I wasn't expecting—"
"There's no baby." My voice was flat. Dead.
Her smile froze.
"What?"
"There is no baby, Bianca. There never was." I threw the investigator's report on the coffee table. "Synthetic hCG. Faked tests. Tell me I'm wrong."
The color drained from her face. Then, in an instant, the mask fell — and for the first time, I saw the woman beneath it.
Cold. Calculating. Furious.
"So what?" she hissed. "You were going to throw me away? Again? For that — that contract nobody?"
"That 'nobody' was my wife."
"She was a REPLACEMENT!" Bianca screamed, rising from the couch. "I was supposed to be your wife! I was supposed to have everything! But you gave it to some broke, pathetic little—"
"Her mother died because of what you did."
Bianca went silent.
"You moved her mother out of that ward. You blocked Evelyn's calls. You told me it wasn't urgent." My voice shook. "Helen Ward died alone because you wanted her daughter gone."
Bianca's chin lifted. No remorse. Not a flicker.
"She should have left sooner," Bianca said. "She didn't belong in your world."
I looked at the woman I'd known for fifteen years — the woman I'd chosen, over and over, while my wife suffered in silence.
"Get out," I said. "Get out of my house. Get out of my city. If I see your face again, I will destroy your family's company. Do you understand me?"
Bianca's lips parted, eyes wide — genuine fear, finally.
"Luca—"
"GET. OUT."
She ran.
And I stood alone in the empty house, surrounded by the ruins of choices I could never undo.
The episode hit me in the car. Full force.
My driver knew the signs — he pulled over immediately, locked the doors, and waited. I gripped the leather seat until my nails tore through it, my vision swimming black and red.
*Evelyn Evelyn Evelyn—*
Her name was the anchor. It had always been the anchor. But now when I reached for her in my mind, there was nothing. No warmth. No calm. Just a void where she used to be.
The episode lasted forty-three minutes.
When it passed, I was drenched in sweat, my shirt torn, my knuckles bleeding from punching the car door. My driver handed me a water bottle without making eye contact.
"Take me home," I rasped.
But the penthouse wasn't home anymore. It was a mausoleum.
I collapsed on the couch — the same couch where Evelyn used to wait up for me, reading her medical textbooks — and stared at the ceiling.
She'd looked at me like I was nothing. Less than nothing. A stranger. An inconvenience.
The same way I'd looked at her for three years.
My phone buzzed. A message from my investigator:
*[Paternity results back. Sealed file. Call when ready.]*
I wasn't ready. But I called anyway.
"Give me the results."
A pause. Then: "Mr. Castellano... the pregnancy hormone levels in Ms. Laurent's recent medical records don't match the timeline she provided. We also obtained pharmacy records — she purchased synthetic hCG online six weeks before the gala announcement."
The room tilted.
"Are you saying—"
"There is no pregnancy, sir. There never was."
I sat very still for a very long time.
Bianca had faked it. Faked the pregnancy to keep me. To push Evelyn out. And I'd let her — celebrated it, even, on the cover of a goddamn magazine.
Every single moment of the last six months rearranged itself in my mind. Bianca needing the VIP ward. Bianca answering Evelyn's calls. Bianca in my home, in my bed, in my wife's space — orchestrating, manipulating, dismantling my marriage piece by piece.
And I'd handed her the tools to do it.
I drove to the guest house where Bianca was staying — one of my properties, of course — and let myself in without knocking.
She was in the living room, sipping tea, flipping through a wedding magazine. She looked up with that practiced, pretty smile.
"Luca! I wasn't expecting—"
"There's no baby." My voice was flat. Dead.
Her smile froze.
"What?"
"There is no baby, Bianca. There never was." I threw the investigator's report on the coffee table. "Synthetic hCG. Faked tests. Tell me I'm wrong."
The color drained from her face. Then, in an instant, the mask fell — and for the first time, I saw the woman beneath it.
Cold. Calculating. Furious.
"So what?" she hissed. "You were going to throw me away? Again? For that — that contract nobody?"
"That 'nobody' was my wife."
"She was a REPLACEMENT!" Bianca screamed, rising from the couch. "I was supposed to be your wife! I was supposed to have everything! But you gave it to some broke, pathetic little—"
"Her mother died because of what you did."
Bianca went silent.
"You moved her mother out of that ward. You blocked Evelyn's calls. You told me it wasn't urgent." My voice shook. "Helen Ward died alone because you wanted her daughter gone."
Bianca's chin lifted. No remorse. Not a flicker.
"She should have left sooner," Bianca said. "She didn't belong in your world."
I looked at the woman I'd known for fifteen years — the woman I'd chosen, over and over, while my wife suffered in silence.
"Get out," I said. "Get out of my house. Get out of my city. If I see your face again, I will destroy your family's company. Do you understand me?"
Bianca's lips parted, eyes wide — genuine fear, finally.
"Luca—"
"GET. OUT."
She ran.
And I stood alone in the empty house, surrounded by the ruins of choices I could never undo.