After My Miscarriage, the Don Lost Everything

I am the lawfully wedded wife of Don Jones—the Donna of the Jones Family—and the founding CEO of his medical empire.

I stood by Vincent's side as we built it up from a two-room surgical clinic into the crown jewel of European private healthcare.

Then, in my eighth month of pregnancy, dying on the operating table, Vincent pulled every surgeon out of my maternity ward for the sake of his mistress. He killed our child with his own hands. He stripped me of the right to ever be a mother.

He thought I was a homeless orphan with nowhere to go. He had no idea I was the sole blood heir of the Belmonte Family.

After the divorce, I came home to command a global medical empire. He knelt and begged. I watched, cold-eyed, as he fell into hell.

I was the lawfully wedded wife of Vincent, the youngest Don the Jones Family had ever produced. Eight months pregnant. I counted myself blessed to have married such a good man.

A month earlier, a young surgical resident had tried to seduce Vincent with nude photos. He had refused her, sharply. I had never doubted what we had.

Then came the late-night pain. A tearing agony in my lower abdomen that ripped me out of sleep. I could feel the baby inside me fighting, weakening, fading. Cord around the neck. I knew.

The anesthesiologist was preparing the push. The lead surgeon was already reaching for the scalpel.

The door slammed open.

Vincent stood in the doorway, his black bespoke suit damp with night dew, none of the usual warmth on his face. Only the cold, bone-deep indifference that belonged to a mafia Don.

He said one thing. Light as a feather, yet it drove through my heart like a poisoned blade.

"All lead surgeons, anesthesiologists, and rotating nurses—reassigned to the penthouse VIP maternity ward. Now."

The maternity ward went dead silent.

My blood turned to ice. I gripped the edge of the bed with the last of my strength, my voice shaking so badly I could barely speak.

"Vincent—what are you doing? The baby's dying!"

He walked to the side of the operating table and looked down at me without a trace of pity.

"Layla. Clara is also eight months along. Her water just broke. The fetus is in distress. She could lose her life and the baby's at any moment."

Clara.

That name had been lodged in my heart like a poisoned thorn for an entire year.

A year ago, during the evaluation panel for her residency exam, I had walked into the back room and seen her strip naked in front of the camera, taunting Vincent during his surgical review meeting.

Vincent had knelt before me and sworn he'd fired her. Sworn he had cut her off completely.

Turned out they had never been cut off at all.

Turned out she was eight months pregnant too—almost to the exact same week as my child.

"If something happens to her,