The Pregnancy I Faked, His Empire I’ll Break

I woke up from a nightmare, and I was back. Back in the year the Falcone family went to war with the Morozovs for the shipping lanes.

I was the Donna of the Falcone family. The woman they all envied. And the first thing I did?

I got rid of the baby in my belly. My husband's child. Don Enzo's.

Because in my last life, on the day I gave birth, Enzo held up a baby with blue eyes. His own eyes were blazing. "How dare you sleep with a Morozov," he snarled, "and birth their blue-eyed bastard!"

The family sentenced me to death. They threw me in a cell.

I didn't learn the truth until the very end. That baby belonged to Eliana—Enzo's first love.

She was the one sleeping with our sworn enemy. The Morozovs.

And Enzo? He stole my rightful heir and swapped him for her bastard.

They made me the family traitor. And left my body to rot in a cold, damp cell.

And my own son—his mind twisted by that bitch—stood over my corpse and cursed my name.

When I opened my eyes again, I was three months pregnant.

I didn't hesitate. I walked into a clinic and ended it.

Before I left, I took a different kind of shot. High-grade hormones, straight from the black market.

It fakes the signs of pregnancy. Fools even the best blood tests.

Enzo needed a baby to cover for Eliana's sins.

Fine. Let's play.

My husband, Don Enzo, swapped our son for his precious Eliana’s, then had me killed. I woke up in the past. Found a clinic. Ended the pregnancy.

I walked out of that clinic clutching the vial of hormones that would sell the lie.

The pain from the abortion was nothing.

Not compared to the cold in my heart when Enzo shoved that custom dagger—the one with my name on it—straight through my chest.

My heart was a block of ice. Sadness was a luxury I couldn't afford.

The son that should have been his was gone. Forever.

I drove my Maserati back to the Falcone estate.

Her voice dripped with honey before I even cut the engine.

"Enzo, you're so sweet."

I stepped out, and the sight turned my blood to ice.

My husband. Don Enzo. In front of his prized car, holding Eliana like she was a porcelain doll.

And her, in that Dior dress, arms snaked around his neck.

Pathetic. I was his wife, the Donna, and I had to watch him protect her.

The crunch of my heels on the gravel made their heads snap around.

For a split second, I saw the victory in her eyes.

Then she buried it under a look of wide-eyed surprise.

“Marcella! You’re back!”

Her voice made my stomach turn.

I walked toward them, my hand resting protectively on my still-flat stomach.

The hormones were already at work, selling the lie. I was every bit the woman carrying the family heir.

“Good afternoon, Enzo. Eliana,”