Why's the Don Crying After I Dumped Him?

At our wedding, Don Marco DeLuca, my fiance, answers a phone call. That's when his expression changes drastically.

He then looks at me, his eyes filled with pain and conflict, two of the emotions that I've never seen plaguing him before.

"Lina, Fiora will be flying this afternoon. She will leave Novaris permanently. This will be our last time seeing each other. I… I need to send her off."

As I rub my thumb against the diamond ring which has just gotten slotted onto my ring finger, I just gaze at Marco quietly.

"Are you sure you want to go see her off?"

Marco's voice is trembling at this rate. He dares not even look me in the eye.

"Lina, I swear that you'll be the only woman for me from now on. We'll get married, and we'll have children together. Life will be perfect for us."

After that, he turns on his heel and walks away without looking back. He doesn't see the way I've crumpled onto the floor, where a puddle of blood has formed beneath me.

My papa kisses me on the forehead. "My darling principessa, are you sure you want to break up with Marco?"

I close my eyes and nod in response.

I don't want Marco nor this farce of a marriage contract anymore.

Fiora Ricci's name acted as a fuse between Marco DeLuca and me. It had been eight months since the name had been brought up, and to hear it again today was like hearing a stranger's name.

Marco's expression was one of struggle and suffering. He looked as earnest as he did when he kneeled before Papa, Loreto Moretti, to ask for my hand in marriage. He swore on the Bible and promised me that things between him and Fiora had ended long ago, thoroughly and completely.

"Do you really intend to go, Marco?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Marco left without looking back. His retreating figure was steadfast, even bearing a sense of solemn finality.

I found myself laughing as a sudden pain shot through my lower abdomen and blood flowed across the floor. I wasn't able to keep the baby after all of this.

I stared at the closed door and burst out laughing, the candle flames in the church dancing with the wind. I glanced down at the ivory-white wedding gown Marco had personally picked out—a three-month commission that cost 60 thousand dollars just to ship. I merely yanked the veil away and threw it on the floor.

I could hear the guests in the church whispering amongst themselves. There were sympathetic glances, and there were those enjoying the scandal, but many just quietly left their drinks behind, pretending it hadn't happened.

I sat alone in the empty hall and called my lawyer. "Get that agreement ready, Antonio."

…

I returned to our penthouse at the Sterling District the following morning, looking deathly pale. I noticed that it was silent throughout and knew that Marco still hadn't returned. I