A Promise Laced with Ice
I was eight months pregnant when I was pushed from a second-story balcony.
My husband, Salvatore, played the hero. He rushed me to our private hospital, telling me our baby was safe.
He lied. When I woke up, they were both gone.
I struggled to stand, dragging my broken body through the halls in search of them.
But at the door of the morgue, I heard his voice.
“He was still breathing,” the doctor stammered. “He was your son. How could you strangle him with your own hands?”
“A mercy,” Salvatore said, his voice pure ice. “He never should have existed.”
“Gianna gave me a son yesterday. I promised her he would be the sole Moretti heir. No competition.”
So, my happiness had been nothing but a delusion.
The marriage I treasured was nothing more than a gilded cage with demons lurking inside.
If that’s the case, then I’ll leave.