I Let Scarlett Die So Siena Could Burn His Empire

The metal chair was freezing, but Dante’s eyes were colder.

He didn't flinch as the syndicate doctor plunged the needle into my neck. Truth serum. A lethal dose meant for traitors—not for the woman wearing his diamond engagement ring.

Then I felt it. A hot, sticky rush between my legs. My baby. His heir. Slipping away onto the cold concrete floor.

"Dante," I choked out, my veins turning to acid.

He didn't even look at me. Instead, he turned his back to comfort Harper, my adopted sister. She stood in the doorway, squeezing out fake tears over a poisoning I never committed.

That night, Scarlett Costa died in that vault.

Now, I stand in the penthouse of Damien Thorne—the man Dante called a monster. The rival Boss traces the scar on my neck with the edge of a blade.

"Ready?" he asks.

We have a gala to attend. And Dante is about to meet a ghost.

The needle tore into my neck before I could scream.

Liquid fire surged through my veins, exploding behind my eyes. My vision fractured. The scream died in my throat, strangled by the serum liquefying my senses.

I tried to move, but the leather straps bit into my wrists. I’d been bound here for hours. My fingers were dead weight.

This was "The Vault." Three floors beneath the estate. No windows. No escape. Just the smell of bleach and the taste of my own terror.

"There she is," the doctor muttered. He stepped back, watching me like a lab rat. He was a thin man in a pristine white coat—too clean for a place this filthy. He picked up a second syringe with a clinical click.

I forced my head to turn.

Dante stood in the shadows. My fiancé. The man who, three days ago, held me in bed and whispered that I was his entire world. Now, he stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set like granite.

There was no anger in his eyes. No grief. Just... nothing.

"Dante." My voice was a wreck. "Dante, please—"

"Don't," he snapped. His quiet tone was sharper than a blade.

A soft sob came from the doorway.

Harper leaned against the frame, wrapped in a silk robe. She looked pale and fragile—the perfect victim. She’d spent her whole life perfecting that "poor little sister" look.

Our eyes met. For a split second, the mask slipped. There was no guilt in her gaze. Only pure, smug satisfaction.

"Just tell the truth, Scarlett," Harper whispered, her voice trembling with fake emotion. "Tell him why you put the poison in his drink. We just want this to be over."

"I didn't—" A vicious cramp seized my stomach, doubling me over against the straps. "I didn't poison anyone!"

The pain hit again. Harder.

I knew this pain. I’d been hiding it for weeks—the morning sickness, the secret I was waiting for the right moment to tell him. I wanted us to be a real family.

The room went gray. I