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"I've explained this to you a hundred times. Isobel can't hold on much longer. Her bone marrow cancer—it's terminal."

"The doctors said she has a year. At best."

"Her last wish is to leave behind a child. To carry on her family's bloodline."

"I owe her my life, Nina. This isn't just a debt between her and me—it's a blood debt between two Families."

Dante stood in front of me, using that soft, measured voice he always used when he wanted me to fold. Every word landed like a blade.

Five years ago, on a street corner in Chicago, the De Luca Family had gotten caught in a shootout with a crew out of Boston. Dante had taken a bullet. Isobel, they said, had taken one for him.

From that day on, she was his saint.

But I didn't understand—since when was sacrificing me his way of paying back a debt? Was that love?

"It's just IVF," he said, trying to coax me. "Nothing happens between us. It's just to leave behind a child."

He paused, his eyes unreadable. "You love me, don't you? If you love me, you'll understand. You'll let me do this."

I shot to my feet, my voice trembling with rage. "Dante, we're getting married next month. And behind my back, you've had another woman carrying your child? What does that make me?"

Silence.

For a second, I caught the flicker behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or just calculation running its course.

Then his face smoothed out. His voice dropped, cold and final. "Nina. This isn't just about me and Isobel. This is about the Families."

"De Rossi and De Luca already reached an accord. A child between us ends ten years of blood between our houses."

"I can't undo what the Family decided."

I stared at him, and suddenly he was a stranger.

We'd grown up together—from the brownstones of Brooklyn to the lecture halls of Columbia Medical School. I had been at his side for every single step.

We had what I thought was a clean love. One that belonged only to us.

But the truth was, he had never really stood beside me. I was just the appropriate fiancée—gentle, presentable, smart enough, composed enough. Good enough to sit at the arm of the De Rossi heir.

The girl who actually lived in his heart wasn't me. It was the girl who'd played with him with water guns since they were five. The daughter of his family's oldest enemy. The one he'd quietly kept tucked against his ribs even when she stood in the enemy's camp.

Did he love me? Maybe.

But the moment the Family, power, blood debts, and his childhood sweetheart landed on the other side of the scale, I would always be the first thing he threw away.

He opened his mouth to say more, but his phone rang.

He strode to the balcony and answered. His voice went soft. Low. Tender.

I couldn't hear what the person on the other end was saying—only that the corner of his mouth lifted into a quiet, fond smile.

I hadn't seen him smile at me like that in a long, long time.