The screen lit up. A message from Bianca, sent two weeks ago:

“My love, the ultrasound today was perfect. The baby is so healthy. The sunset in Miami is beautiful. Wish you were here to see it with me.”

Miami?

I scrolled up. Every message was a knife in my heart.

For the past eight months, Massimo had told me he was in Colombia, handling business.

Lies. All of it.

He was on his private island in Miami with Bianca, waiting for her to give birth.

There were pictures. One after another.

Massimo teaching Bianca to shoot, his hand covering hers, correcting her stance.

Massimo painting her portrait, making her look like a goddess.

Massimo peeling grapes for her, feeding them to her one by one.

A killer with blood on his hands, peeling grapes for his whore.

And me?

I was at home, waiting alone, worrying about him every single day.

Every time he called with a “business update,” I was too anxious to sleep.

I even lit candles for him at church, praying for his safety.

What a fool I was.

I remembered the first time I met Bianca. It was Thanksgiving, two years ago. Massimo’s mother, Maria, was holding her and crying.

“Bianca, my poor darling, you’ve suffered so much. Your mother asked me to look after you on her deathbed, and I will.”

Maria told me Bianca was the daughter of her dead best friend. She and Massimo were childhood sweethearts, but she’d married an English nobleman. Her husband died in a car crash last year, leaving her pregnant and alone, so she’d returned to Chicago.

I’d pitied her. What a joke. Her whole damsel-in-distress routine was just an act.

Her husband probably wasn’t even dead. Maybe he never existed at all.

I kept scrolling and saw an address that made my blood run cold.

1247 Oak Street, on the shore of Lake Michigan.

My heart stopped.

That was the address of the glass art studio Massimo had promised to build for me. My dream sanctuary, for my work as an art restorer.

“After the baby is born, I’ll build you a studio right on the lake,” he had promised. “All glass walls, so you can watch the water while you work.”

My hand shook as I clicked on a video file.

The camera was shaky. It was Massimo’s point of view.

He was giving Bianca a tour of the studio. The one I had dreamed of for years.

“Do you like it?” Massimo’s voice purred from the phone. “I built it just for you. My studio. My Bianca.”

Bianca let out a flirtatious laugh and stood on her toes to kiss his lips.

“I love it, Massimo. As much as I love you.”

The walls were covered in her paintings. Every single one was of Massimo.

And in the center of the room, on the very easel I had picked out and had shipped from Italy, sat an unfinished painting.

Hurt?

Bianca looked more radiant than I’d ever seen her. Her skin was glowing, her figure already perfect again.

She didn’t look like someone who’d just been through hell.

Then there was me.

Pale, with dark circles under my eyes, so thin I looked like a ghost.

“Arabella!” My mother-in-law’s brow furrowed when she saw me. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“You are the Donna of the Falcone family. How dare you show up to a family gathering dressed like that?”

I looked down at my simple black dress. It was plain, but perfectly respectable.

“Look at Bianca,” Maria turned back to her with a doting smile. “Even after being so badly hurt, she’s still so elegant and beautiful. Such a good girl, always so sweet. Since you lost your mother, I’ll just have to love you like my own daughter.”

In the past, Massimo would have defended me.

Today, he sat in silence.

Then Maria brought out the family’s heirloom sapphire necklace. As she was about to put it on Bianca, Massimo finally spoke.

“Mama, a necklace isn’t enough.”

He made a phone call. Moments later, his men started carrying in bags. A hundred of them.

Hermès, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Dior…

Each one worth tens of thousands of dollars.

“Bianca, I know you like bags,” Massimo said with a smile. “The finest jewels deserve the finest bags to carry them in. Don’t you agree?”