"My mob boss husband brought his mistress into our bedroom while I was 8 months pregnant—unaware I’d already planned my escape."

Dante didn't try to force his way into my bed. He slept on the leather sofa in his study downstairs, returning to the guest wing only during Dr. Aris's daily medical examinations.

He had fulfilled every promise he made in the hotel room.

The Gold Coast estate was officially listed for private corporate auction. The penthouse in Manhattan was sold. The four servants who had allowed Vivian Cross past the security gate without my authorization were permanently dismissed from the state.

Every morning at 8:00 a.m., a tray of fresh organic fruit, warm chamomile tea, and iron supplements was placed outside my door by my loyal personal maid, Maria.

And sitting beside the tray, written on heavy cream stationery in Dante's sharp, fluid handwriting, was a daily letter.

I didn't open them for the first ten days. I left them stacked on the mahogany side table near the window, letting the unopened white envelopes pile up like silent accusations.

On the eleventh morning, as a heavy February snowstorm blanketed the city in five feet of white powder, I sat by the window in a plush cashmere robe, holding my swollen stomach.

My baby was thirty-six weeks along now—dropping lower into my pelvis, his kicks firm, rhythmic, and frequent.

I looked at the stack of eleven unopened letters.

My hand reached out, picking up the top envelope dated three days prior.

I broke the dark red wax seal:

"Elena,

Dr. Aris told me this morning that your blood pressure has stabilized. She said you slept six hours last night. It is the first time in three weeks my chest hasn't felt like it was collapsing under an iron weight.

I watched you through the security monitor in the garden yesterday. You were wearing the green coat I bought you in Milan three years ago—the coat you wore the afternoon we found out we were having a son.

I know you look at me and see a monster who traded your dignity for his bloated pride. I know you think I brought Vivian Cross into our house because I didn't care about you.

The truth is far worse, Elena. I was terrified.

I was terrified of becoming a father. I was terrified that a man born in blood, a man whose father died in an alley, could never raise a pure, innocent child. I let my fear drive me into the arms of a superficial distraction because looking at your beautiful, glowing face reminded me of everything I wasn't worthy of possessing.

I don't ask for your forgiveness today, Elena. I know I lost the right to hold your hand. But I ask you to let me sit in the delivery room when our son arrives. Let me see the miracle you built while I was drowning in my own dark pride.

— Dante"

A hot, heavy tear spilled over my lashes, smudging the black ink over his signature.

I closed the letter, holding it against my chest as my baby kicked hard against my ribs—a sharp, sudden contraction that made my breath hitch in my throat.

A second contraction followed twenty seconds later.