He Saved Her, I Lost Our Child

For three years, I kept a secret ledger of my husband's sins.

A point system to decide exactly when I would leave Blake Santos, the ruthless Underboss of Chicago.

I thought the final straw would be him forgetting our anniversary dinner to comfort his "childhood friend," Ariana.

I was wrong.

The real breaking point came when the restaurant ceiling collapsed.

In that split second, Blake didn't look at me. He dove to his right, shielding Ariana with his body, leaving me to be crushed under a half-ton crystal chandelier.

I woke up in a sterile hospital room with a shattered leg and a hollow womb.

The doctor, trembling and pale, told me my eight-week-old fetus hadn't survived the trauma and blood loss.

"We tried to get the O-negative reserves," he stammered, refusing to meet my eyes. "But Dr. Santos ordered us to hold them. He said Miss Whitfield might go into shock from her injuries."

"What injuries?" I whispered.

"A laceration on her finger," the doctor admitted. "And anxiety."

He let our unborn child die to save the blood reserves for his mistress’s paper cut.

Blake finally walked into my room hours later, smelling of Ariana’s perfume, expecting me to be the dutiful, silent wife who understood his "duty."

Instead, I picked up my pen and wrote the final entry in my black leather book.

*Minus five points. He killed our child.*

*Total Score: Zero.*

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

I just signed the divorce papers, called my extraction team, and vanished into the rain before he could turn around.

Chapter 1

Caroline POV

My husband, the most ruthless Underboss in the Chicago Outfit, held the evidence of my treason in his blood-stained surgeon's hands. But instead of putting a bullet in my head, he flipped the leather cover shut, tossed the journal back onto the duvet, and dismissed my meticulous plans for freedom as a "cute hobby."

"You have too much time on your hands, Caroline," Blake said, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke Italian suit. The scent of antiseptic and expensive scotch clung to him—the perfume of a man who spent his days saving lives and his nights ordering deaths.

"An 'Exit Strategy'? Really? You’ve been watching too many movies."

He didn't bother opening it to page forty-two.

If he had, he would have seen the entry from last week:

*Minus five points. He forgot my birthday to hold her hand during a panic attack.*

"It's not a game, Blake," I said, my voice steady despite the way my heart hammered against my ribs. I was standing in the center of our master closet, a space larger than most people's apartments, surrounded by the velvet and silk trappings of a trophy wife. "It’s a record."

He laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound that didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were like shattered ice—beautiful, sharp, and completely cold.

"A record of what? My sins?" He stepped closer, towering over me. He was the Prince of the Santos