Her belly was round and heavy.
Violet is nine months pregnant now and could go into labor at any moment.
She looked like she could topple over with the slightest movement, her balance precarious, her posture strained—but she stood there anyway, as if sheer will alone kept her upright.
Hatred burned in her eyes.
Bright. Unrelenting.
Unchanged.
She wore a cream silk dress that clung to her body in all the wrong ways—stretching over her frame, emphasizing her condition, her presence.
It wasn’t just clothing. It was a statement.
The last time I had seen her clearly was eight months ago—lying in that hospital bed, pretending to be gravely ill in front of Vincenzo. Only after he left did I realize it had all been a lie.
Since then, she had existed only in whispers.
In reports. In absence.
Renzo had told me that Vincenzo had kept her at a distance.
“He still sees her,” Renzo had said once, almost reluctantly. “But not here.”
“Where?” I had asked.
“Her apartment.”
A pause.
“He doesn’t bring her to the estate anymore.”
“Why?”
Renzo had exhaled. “He thinks she could be a problem for you, especially since you’re heavily pregnant.”
As if that was supposed to mean something.
As if that was supposed to comfort me.
Now I can’t help but wonder—what is Violet doing here?
And why is she this close to me?
She walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps, one hand resting under her belly.
“Don’t get too close, Violet. You’re always up to something, and I’m not in the mood for your tricks right now.” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden tension coiling in my chest.
Violet stopped a few feet away.
Close enough.
She folded her arms beneath her chest, the movement lifting her belly even higher, making her appear both stronger and more fragile at the same time.
Her lips curled slightly.
“That bastard growing inside you has no right to be there. Agree to abort it... and you’ll live.”
