Chapter 13
Outside, the world was on fire. My cell phone wouldn’t stop vibrating on the mahogany dressing table, each buzz a new vulture circling the carcass of my reputation.
ULTIM’ORA was just the beginning. At that moment, La Repubblica, Corriere della Sera, and even the sleazy London tabloids were all screaming the same story: The Ferraro Heiress. Pregnant and Rejected.
I was standing, dressed not as a woman in mourning, but as a general. I wore a perfectly pressed, charcoal-gray, cool-weight wool suit. My hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it pulled at the skin on my temples.
I was on the phone, my voice sharp as a sword.
“No, Giorgio, I don’t want a press release. I want a restraining order! Silvio Moretti’s fucking name on every watch list—let him be legally barred from breathing the same air as me… Yes, I know that’s impossible. Find a way!”
I hung up without waiting for a reply and looked at my reflection.
However, the adrenaline keeping me on my feet wasn’t from power—it was pure panic. I was terrified that the entire facade of the “iron lady” I’d spent my whole life projecting had been shattered beyond repair. My hands were shaking, so I clenched them into fists.
I was pregnant, exposed, and… vulnerable.
I hated being vulnerable with every fiber of my being, but ever since Marco had come into my life, he’d always made me feel that way—in the best and worst ways.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Go away,” I growled, without turning around.
The door opened anyway. The faint scent of chamomile preceded her entrance.
It was Larissa, my sister-in-law. The wife who embodied everything I despised: raw emotion, vulnerability, the kind of pain that breaks a person in public.
She suffered a great deal until Enzo realized—thanks in part to my help—that he needed to be a safe haven. I swore to myself that I would never go through anything like that; I wasn’t that kind of woman… sweet illusion!
How I hated myself at that moment—a failure in the area of my life I thought was the easiest to control: my emotions.
She walked in holding a silver tray. There was a steaming cup of tea and some cookies, a gesture of peace.
“I know you don’t want to see anyone, Bianca,” she said, in a voice as soft as silk—the same voice that once pleaded for my brother. “But I thought maybe some tea…”
“Tea?” I let out a laugh—an ugly, dry sound that echoed through the suite. “You think tea is going to fix this?”
“No…” She set the tray on the coffee table, hesitantly. “But staying alone, angry, won’t help. I know what it’s like…”
“No.” I turned to face her, and the fury I’d been using to survive finally found a target. “You don’t know. You have no idea what it’s like.”
I lunged at her.
“Your pain was because of love, Larissa. It was emotional. Mine is a logistical problem—about the empire and my family’s name being dragged through the mud because of a miscalculation.”
She stepped back, her brown eyes widening at my cruelty.
“Bianca, this isn’t about business. You’re suffering…”
“I’m not suffering!” I hissed. “I’m angry! And I’m on the defensive because I’m the only one in this family who seems to understand what’s at stake! I don’t need compassion. I need control.”
“And you think you’re in control now?” she asked, her voice suddenly firm, her own strength—the strength that had survived Enzo—coming to the surface. “Hiding out here, yelling at everyone?”
I was about to lash out at her, to kick her out, to say things I could never take back, when the suite door flew open.
It wasn’t a knock. It was an invasion.
Priscilla, Matteo’s wife, was panting, her cell phone in her hand as if it were a weapon, her face pale with shock.
“Bianca, shut up and turn on the TV. Now!”
The urgency in her voice was so absolute that it silenced my anger. I exchanged a confused glance with Larissa.
“What…?”
“TURN IT ON!” Priscilla shouted.
I grabbed the remote control from my desk and pressed the button. The huge screen built into the wall came to life.
It was Canale 5. The same channel that had crucified me. But it wasn’t an anchor. It was a press conference. The room was packed, a jungle of microphones and camera flashes, and on the podium… there he was.
My heart stopped. The adrenaline of panic hit me with full force. No! Marco wouldn’t dare.
“…an absolute lie,” he was saying. “The woman you’ve portrayed as a traitor is, in fact, the only victim in this story.”
I couldn’t breathe. Larissa put her hand to her mouth.
Then he said:
“I am the father.”
The air rushed out of my lungs in a single, painful hiss. I leaned against the dressing table, my legs suddenly weak.
“The child Bianca Ferraro is carrying… is mine.”
The reporters on the screen erupted into chaos.
“I left her at the altar because I was manipulated by a rival.”
I shook my head. No. No, this is a trick. He’s lying, he…
“I didn’t run away because she cheated on me; I was a fool—proud, arrogant, and too blind to see the truth. I made a terrible mistake.”
I watched him. The man I knew—the arrogant wolf who had built an empire on pride—stood before the whole world, falling apart.
“The mistake and the shame are mine.”
I was in shock.
He wasn’t blaming me. He wasn’t making excuses.
“I apologize publicly.”
I saw him swallow hard and the glint of tears in his eyes before he blinked them away.
“I take full responsibility for what happened. The mistake was mine. Mine alone.”
He kept talking—something about Silvio, something about honor. But I wasn’t hearing the words anymore. I was seeing the act.
He was sacrificing himself, throwing himself to the wolves to save me, using his own pride as a shield to protect mine.
The ice in my veins didn’t melt. It shattered.
The control I’d maintained for months, the fury that had kept me standing… it all vanished.
I let the remote control fall, and it hit the carpet without a sound.
“Bianca?” I heard Larissa’s voice, distant.
I couldn’t answer; I just stood there, staring at the screen, watching the man I hated most in the world destroy himself… for me.