Sold To The Devil: Escaping My Ruthless Husband

I was standing in the center of the gallery, holding a glass of expensive champagne, when the screens behind me flickered and my life ended.

It was supposed to be an art unveiling, but the monitors shifted to fake footage of me handing evidence to the FBI.

My fiancé, Ethan, looked at me like I was a sick dog that needed to be put down.

My father slapped me across the face in front of everyone, disowning me to save his own skin.

That was when Luca Vitti, the city’s most dangerous man, stepped in.

He cleared the room and took my hand.

I thought he was saving me.

I didn't realize he was just collecting a new pet.

I was locked in his estate, isolated and terrified.

Then, my healthy mother suddenly "died" of pneumonia in a Vitti clinic.

Days later, I saw Luca’s frail stepsister, Clara, breathing easily for the first time in her life.

She had my mother’s lungs.

I became nothing more than a breeding vessel.

When I fell pregnant, I overheard Luca and Ethan planning my death.

"Once the kid is cut out, she's a loose end," Luca had said.

They were going to kill me and give my son to the woman who stole my mother's breath.

I couldn't let that happen.

So, I staged a tragedy.

I induced labor in secret, hid my living son, and placed a fake corpse in the crib with a note: The Vitti Legacy.

I escaped while they mourned.

Five years later, Luca finally found the doctor’s confession.

He learned that Clara had orchestrated everything.

He opened the velvet box I left behind and realized it was empty.

Now, he knows I didn't kill his son.

I saved him from becoming a monster like his father.

Chapter 1

Alessia POV

I was standing in the center of the gallery, holding a glass of champagne that cost more than my father made in a month, when the screens behind me flickered and my life ended.

It was supposed to be the unveiling of the Vitti family's legitimate art collection, a project I had spent two years curating to wash their blood money clean.

My fiancé, Ethan, stood three feet away, adjusting his tie. He looked handsome in that rugged, soldier way that usually made my knees weak. But when the large monitors mounted on the pristine white walls shifted from a Renaissance Madonna to grainy black-and-white surveillance footage, his expression changed.

The room went silent.

The footage showed a woman with my hair and my coat handing a manila envelope to a man in a windbreaker. The timestamp was yesterday. The location was a known FBI meeting point.

It was a lie. A digital fabrication. I had been in the studio all day yesterday.

Ethan turned to me. The love in his eyes didn't just fade; it evaporated, replaced by the hollow, dead look of a man who knows he has to put down a sick dog.

"Alessia," he