Chapter 23
ELENA
THE VIP PATIENT LOUNGE of the private hospital was more a curated extension of power than a medical space.
Cream leather armchairs were arranged with careful symmetry around a low glass coffee table.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one side of the room, offering a view of manicured gardens outside.
Fountains trickled in the distance, their steady rhythm the only real sound in a space built for silence.
Everything here spoke the same language.
Money.
Discretion.
Exactly the kind of place Vincenzo would choose for something like this.
For something that could decide everything.
I sat on the edge of one of the armchairs, posture stiff, hands clasped tightly together in my lap.
My fingers were locked so firmly that my knuckles ached, skin stretched pale from the pressure.
I forced myself to breathe evenly, but every inhale felt shallow—like my lungs couldn’t quite catch up to my thoughts.
Across from me, Vincenzo sat on the sofa.
Completely at ease.
One arm draped along the backrest, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.
His posture was relaxed in a way that almost felt insulting, given what was at stake.
He held his phone loosely in one hand, scrolling with quiet, casual focus.
His expression was unreadable—until it wasn’t.
Every so often, the corner of his mouth would lift.
Just a fraction.
Barely there.
But enough.
Enough to make something inside me tighten painfully.
Vincenzo Orsini didn’t smile.
Not like that.
Not in a way that lingered.
Not in a way that looked soft.
Not in a way that felt... given.
And certainly not at me.
My chest felt tighter with every passing second.
I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I rose silently from the chair, my bare feet pressing against the cool marble floor without a sound.
The chill seeped into my skin, grounding me as I moved, but it did nothing to steady the storm building inside me.
I walked behind him.
Close enough now to see the glow of his screen from over his shoulder.
I leaned forward slightly, bracing my hands lightly against the back of the sofa as I looked down.
And there she was.
Violet.
Her Instagram feed filled his screen.
A curated life that looked effortless, untouched by pain, untouched by anything real.
Grid after grid.
Sunlit photos taken on terraces overlooking the sea—golden light spilling across her skin, her smile soft and radiant in a way that felt practiced.
Close-ups of her manicured hands resting gently over the slight curve of her stomach.
Each image framed to emphasize it.
To remind the world—and maybe him—that she was carrying something.
Something important.
Something visible.
Videos followed.
Her laughing in slow motion, hair moving with the breeze, sunlight haloing her like she existed in a completely different world from the one I stood in.
Vincenzo lingered on each one.
His thumb hovered before scrolling.
Paused.
Repeated.
His eyes softened in a way I had never seen before—not once—not even in fleeting moments.
Not for me.
Not ever.
A dull, sharp pain bloomed beneath my ribs.
Deeper than any bruise.
I straightened slowly.
Stepped back.
And returned to my seat without a word.
Turning my face toward the window, I stared out at the gardens, at the fountains, at anything that wasn’t him.
Anything that wouldn’t betray how much that moment had just taken out of me.
When I finally looked back—
He was already watching me.
Still. Steady.
Unreadable.
Like nothing had happened.
As if he hadn’t just reminded me exactly where I stood in his world.
Something in me cracked.
I tilted my head slightly toward him, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
“You really do love your Violet, don’t you?”
The words came out quieter than I intended.
Faint. Fractured.
But they carried everything I couldn’t hold in anymore.
“Even now...” My voice trembled, but I didn’t stop. “Waiting to find out if the child I’m carrying is yours... Violet remains the sole occupant of your heart.”
He didn’t react.
“She’s all that matters to me,” he said, without hesitation.
No second thought.
Just certainty.
The statement hit me like a physical blow.
My breath caught sharply in my throat, as if something inside me had just been squeezed too tightly to function properly.
My chest tightened painfully, the air suddenly thin, like my body had forgotten how to breathe.
Over and over, my heartbeat stuttered—off rhythm, uneven.
I forced myself to look away.
To ground myself in something that wouldn’t shatter under the weight of that moment.
I kept my gaze fixed on the orchid.
How long would I let his words—his actions—hurt me this deeply?
No.
Enough.
I needed to become indifferent. Cold. Untouchable.
Until I found a way to leave him for good.
He would never choose me. Never.
Not when his heart had always belonged to Violet.
That truth had been there from the start.
The only problem was me—still feeling, still hurting, still letting him have that power over me.
It had to end.
And I would make sure it did.
Time dulled things.
The door opened with a soft pneumatic hiss, cutting through the silence.
The doctor stepped in.
Composed.
Five-foot-four, wire-rimmed glasses, his white coat pressed so perfectly it looked untouched by the real world.
He held a slim folder in one hand, the kind that carried answers people didn’t always want to hear.
His eyes moved briefly between Vincenzo and me before settling on me.
“Signora Orsini...” he began.
But I was already moving.
I pushed myself up to my feet.
The chair behind me barely made a sound as I stood, my body straightening despite the tension coiled inside me. My heart pounded—but it wasn’t fear.
It was certainty.
Confidence surged through me, reckless and unyielding.
“Please,” I said, gesturing toward Vincenzo. “Give it to him.”
The doctor blinked slightly.
“Let him see for himself.”
A pause.
Then the doctor nodded and crossed the room, extending the folder toward Vincenzo with practiced calm.
I held my breath.
Watched. Waited.
This was it.
The moment. The proof.
The second everything would change.
Vincenzo took the folder without a word.
Opened it.
His eyes dropped to the page.
I watched his face like I was watching a verdict being delivered.
I waited for the shift—the widening of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, the moment his certainty would crack under the weight of truth.
The moment he would realize—
I hadn’t lied.
But it didn’t happen.
Instead—
His expression hardened.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Just... hard.
His jaw clenched.
A muscle ticked sharply in his cheek.
Once.
Then again.
He read the page without reacting outwardly, but something in him tightened.
Then—
Without warning—
He dropped the folder onto the side table.
The papers fluttered slightly as they settled, the sound too loud in the quiet room.
He stood.
“This... is what you think my time is worth?”
His voice was cold and cutting.
They landed like something final.
And then—
He turned and walked out.
No second glance.
The door swung shut behind him with a firm, decisive click that echoed through the room like a door being sealed on something irreversible.
My chest collapsed physically.
Like something inside me had just been ripped out.
“No—”
The word left my mouth on instinct.
I lunged for the folder, my hands shaking so badly the papers rattled as I grabbed them.
My fingers fumbled, trying to steady the pages as my eyes darted across the text.
I scanned the report, searching for something—anything.
Then I found it.
The line.
Bold and final.
Paternity Probability: 0%. The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the fetus.
I froze.
My eyes widened slightly.
My breath stopped.
“No...” I whispered.
I read it again.
And again.
The words didn’t change. They didn’t rearrange themselves.
They didn’t soften or offer a different meaning.
They stayed exactly where they were.
Impossible.
I wiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand, once... twice... as if somehow the blur would distort the truth enough to make it wrong.
But it didn’t.
“No... this isn’t real,” The words tore out of me, raw and broken.
There had to be a mistake.
There had to be.
A switched sample. A mislabeled vial. A clerical error.
Anything.
Anything but this.
I didn’t think.
I bolted out of the lounge, clutching the report in my hand like it was the only proof I had left.
The corridor blurred as I moved through it, my steps uneven, too fast, too desperate.
My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I pushed through the hospital hallways, ignoring the stares, ignoring the whispers, ignoring everything except the need to fix this.
The doctor.
I needed the doctor.
I burst into his office without knocking.
He was already inside.
Mid-sentence.
With another couple.
The room went silent the moment I entered.
“Doctor—” My voice cracked as I stepped forward. “There’s been a mistake.”
He blinked at me, startled—but composed.
“Signora—”
“There’s an error with this DNA test,” I said quickly, holding the folder up as evidence. “The child is Vincenzo’s. It has to be.”
The couple exchanged a glance.
The doctor, however, didn’t react with the same panic I felt.
He stayed calm.
Professional.
“The margin of error in our paternity testing is less than 0.0001%,” he said evenly.
Each word landed with precision.
“But if you’re that confident,” he added, “you’re welcome to return tomorrow for a repeat sample. We can expedite the results.”
I nodded.
Too quickly. Too jerky.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated under my breath.
Then I backed out of the room.
The corridor swallowed me again.
But this time—It felt different.
I barely remembered how I got to the garage exit.
The world felt distorted.
My fingers tightened around the crumpled report as I moved, the paper wrinkling further in my grip.
Hope.
There had been hope.
Now there wasn’t.
I stepped into the garage.
Cold air hit me first.