Betrayed Wife: Hiding The Mafia Boss's Son

I woke up wrapped in the arms of a man I believed would burn the world for me. Michael Thorne was the underworld’s golden boy, and I was pregnant with his legacy.

But by sunset, the illusion shattered. During our family brunch, the doors burst open and a woman dragged a four-year-old boy into the room.

The child had Michael’s nose. His chin.

"Tell them who Leo is!" the woman screamed.

Michael froze. He didn't deny it. While I stood there in shock, his mistress lunged at me, clawing at my face. My husband hesitated.

In that split second, I realized I wasn't his wife; I was just an incubator for his empire. He had kept a secret family as an insurance policy.

My father destroyed Michael’s career in an hour, stripping him of his money and status. But I wanted to destroy his soul.

He begged for forgiveness, weeping, claiming he loved our unborn child more than anything.

So I placed a hand on my stomach and looked him dead in the eye.

"There is no baby, Michael," I lied. "Your legacy is dead."

As he fell to his knees, broken, I walked away to build my own empire—with the son he would never know existed.

Chapter 1

Liv POV

I woke up wrapped in the arms of a man I believed would burn the world for me, never suspecting that by the time the sun set, he would be the one holding the knife to my throat.

Sunlight filtered through the intricate ironwork of the window, casting lace-like shadows across the sheets. I stretched, my hand instinctively drifting to the curve of my stomach.

It was barely a bump, a secret shared only between the velvet walls of this room and the man breathing steadily beside me.

Michael Thorne.

He was the underworld's golden boy, the alchemist who had scrubbed the Hayes family empire clean.

I turned to look at him.

Even in sleep, he was devastating. Sharp jawline, dark lashes resting against cheekbones that looked carved from cold marble.

I slipped out of bed, grabbing my silk robe. My camera sat on the vanity.

I picked it up, scrolling through the photos from last night's charity gala.

There he was.

Michael, holding my waist, his smile dazzling the donors who had no idea the wine they were drinking was bought with blood money.

To the world, we were shipping magnates. To the families in New York and Chicago, we were royalty.

I heard the sheets rustle.

"You're up early." Michael's voice was rough with sleep, a sound that usually curled my toes.

He sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his torso.

"I was just looking at us," I said, walking back to the bed.

He pulled me down, his hand warm and heavy on my stomach.

"You and this baby," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "You are everything. My legacy."

It felt so real. It felt