The air in the room was suffocating, thick with the weight of words that could not be taken back. Aria felt her body freeze, her chest aching as though she had taken a physical blow. The woman's hand rested lightly against her stomach, her painted lips curled into a smile that wasn't joy but triumph. She had delivered her dagger and was watching to see how deeply it cut. Aria's gaze flickered to Lorenzo, desperate to read him, desperate to see even the smallest crack in his mask. But his face was carved from stone, his dark eyes unreadable pools that betrayed nothing. That silence, more than any spoken admission, made Aria's pulse thunder in her ears.
Finally, Lorenzo spoke, his voice calm, almost detached, but sharpened by the edge of fury. "You're lying." His tone wasn't just dismissal—it was accusation, condemnation. He took a step toward the woman, towering over her, his shadow blotting out the morning light that had moments before felt almost tender. "If this is your attempt at leverage, it's pathetic."
The woman's smile only widened, the confidence of someone who knew exactly how deep her words could reach. "Am I lying, Lorenzo? Or are you just afraid of what happens if it's true?" Her eyes darted toward Aria, lingering, piercing. "Your little wife deserves to know the kind of man she's shackled to. If you can betray me, if you can discard me, what do you think she is to you? A queen… or a cage you'll tire of?"
Aria flinched at the venom, but it wasn't the woman's words that gutted her—it was the possibility that lay beneath them. Doubt, insidious and poisonous, wormed its way into her chest. She wanted to believe Lorenzo without question, to hold on to the fragile trust they had begun to build in the dark of the night before. But trust was already fragile in this world, and the thought of another woman carrying his child threatened to break it.
"Leave." Lorenzo's voice cracked like a whip, echoing against the walls. He pointed toward the door, his body a storm barely contained. "Before I decide what punishment is fitting for this insult."
The woman didn't move immediately. She stood her ground, her chin lifted, her hand still against her stomach as though it were a weapon in itself. "The truth will come out," she whispered, her words like a curse. "And when it does, you'll lose more than your power, Lorenzo. You'll lose her."
Aria's breath caught as the woman's eyes locked with hers one last time before she turned and swept from the room, her heels clattering against the marble floor like the toll of a bell.
Silence descended, heavier than the storm that had raged the night before. Aria stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, her thoughts spiraling. Lorenzo turned to her then, his mask cracking ever so slightly, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with the need for her to believe him.
"It isn't true," he said, his voice low, urgent. "She wants to weaken me, to divide us. You can't let her win."
But Aria couldn't answer. She searched his face for something—certainty, reassurance, the truth—but all she saw was fire trying to consume doubt. And fire could burn even the strongest trust to ash.
The scandal spread through the family like wildfire. Whispers rose in the halls, carried on the lips of servants and echoed in the chambers of the mafia elders. By the time Lorenzo convened with them, the rumor had become a weapon sharpened to a point. They didn't shout or accuse directly—they didn't have to. Their subtle glances, their carefully phrased doubts, their suggestion that perhaps Lorenzo's judgment was compromised were daggers cloaked in velvet.
"Your wife already unsettles the balance of power," one elder said, his voice smooth but edged with malice. "Now this… this distraction from your past threatens to undo everything. How are we to trust your focus, your loyalty to the family, when your personal life becomes a spectacle?"
Lorenzo's glare could have turned stone to ash, but rage alone could not silence men who smelled weakness. They pressed harder, their insinuations growing bolder, hinting that perhaps Lorenzo's grip was slipping, that perhaps he was too consumed by his new wife to lead with the ruthless clarity they demanded.
Aria sat in silence at his side, her presence both shield and target. She could feel the weight of their eyes on her, the unspoken accusation that she was at the center of the storm. She wanted to defend him, to shout that the child wasn't his, that he was still strong enough to command the room. But doubt clawed at her chest, a reminder of the woman's confident smirk, her hand on her stomach, the warning that the truth would come.
When the council finally adjourned, the air was charged with tension, the elders leaving behind the echo of their doubts like smoke after a fire. Lorenzo stalked from the chamber, his fists clenched, his jaw set in grim silence. Aria followed, her heart heavy, her mind churning.
That night, as the mansion quieted, betrayal struck like a knife in the dark. Somewhere within the house, someone whispered secrets to the wrong ears. Papers that should have been locked away were missing. Information about the family's movements—information only those closest to Lorenzo could know—surfaced in the hands of rivals.
Lorenzo's rage when he discovered the leak was volcanic, shaking the walls of the estate. Guards were interrogated, staff questioned, threats hissed through clenched teeth. Yet no culprit was found, only the certainty that someone near him, someone he trusted, had turned traitor.
Aria stood in the shadows of his fury, her heart thundering with dread. She wanted to comfort him, to offer him the same shelter he had given her, but she couldn't move past the echo of that woman's voice, the smirk on her lips, the dagger of her words.
And when the night stretched deep and cold, when Lorenzo finally stormed from the war room with fire in his eyes, Aria realized the truth that chilled her blood more than any whispered betrayal: the person who had hurt him most, who had the power to unravel him, might not be the enemy outside the gates. It might be her.