Vincent didn't come home that night. I didn't call to ask where he was.

I didn't need to. The answer was all over Serafina's Instagram.

She posted a picture. After leaving the private clinic that afternoon, they went straight to the Rossi family’s estate in Lake Forest to announce the pregnancy.

In the photo, the Rossi family's Godfather, a man feared throughout Chicago's underworld, was warmly holding Vincent’s hand. Vincent’s other hand rested gently on Serafina’s flat stomach, his face lit with a genuine smile I had never seen before.

In the five years we were together, Vincent had only come home with me once after we got engaged.

Even though our families lived less than half an hour apart, he never offered to visit.

He said he didn't like being around "normal" families. It made him uncomfortable.

Even that one time, he was polite but distant, like a king inspecting his territory. It was nothing like the warmth and ease he showed with the Rossi family in that picture.

I swallowed the bitterness and turned off my phone.

The next day, I met up with some old college friends at a café in Wicker Park and told them the wedding was off.

Vincent had never wanted a wedding in the first place. He called it a meaningless "show" for everyone to stare at.

He only agreed to a grand ceremony at the Holy Name Cathedral because I insisted, inviting everyone who "needed to be invited."

My friends all knew how I felt about Vincent, so they were shocked.

“Are you crazy, Eleanor? You’ve loved Vincent Moretti for years! You’re about to become the matriarch of the Moretti family, and you’re just going to throw it all away?” my best friend, Chloe, asked, grabbing my hand in disbelief.

A knot of pain tightened in my chest.

Was it easy to let go? Of course not.

I had chased Vincent for twenty years before he finally agreed to let me stand by his side.

How could I easily give up a love that was branded onto my entire youth?

But the truth was, our relationship had been unequal from the start.

It was always me chasing after him.

He never once stopped for me.

I used to tell myself it didn't matter. If I could spend twenty years making him agree to marry me, I could spend the rest of our lives winning his heart. It was just a matter of time.

I thought we had a lifetime ahead of us. I could wait. I would wait until he finally opened up to me completely.

But everything changed six months ago when Serafina, his so-called "savior," reappeared.

That's when I realized Vincent wasn't a block of ice to everyone.

He always looked at Serafina with such gentle eyes, but he could barely spare me a real smile.

I tried to rationalize it. She saved his life. His kindness toward her was just about Mafia "honor" and "repaying a debt."

But I never imagined that after learning about her cancer, he would agree to have a child with her—a Moretti family heir!

Worse, he pretended to ask for my permission while he had already gotten her pregnant behind my back.

In that moment, I knew with absolute clarity that there was no future for Vincent and me.

No matter how hard it was, I had to cut this twenty-year love out of my life like a diseased wound.

I didn't tell my friends the real reason. I just said I was joining a classified project and wouldn't be in contact for a long time.

As an apology, I stayed out with them until late that night.

When I got back to our penthouse at the Hancock Center, Vincent had just arrived home too.

He smelled the alcohol on me and his brow furrowed. He took a step back, putting distance between us, and waved a hand dismissively. His voice was laced with undisguised disgust.

“Stay away from me. Don’t get that smell on me.”

I laughed bitterly to myself.

He was probably worried the scent of alcohol would bother Serafina.

After all, she was pregnant now. Precious cargo.

He didn't even bother to hide it.

But since he didn't say her name, I wasn't going to bring her up.

I said nothing and went straight to the bathroom for a shower.

When I came out, Vincent was sitting on the sofa, smiling at something on his tablet.

I glanced at him once and headed for the bedroom.

But he suddenly stopped me.

“Eleanor,” he said, his voice back to its usual calm, commanding tone. “We need to talk.”

I froze.

The last time he said that was a month ago, when he first proposed having a child with Serafina. We had fought about it for a month straight.

Now that she was pregnant, what else was there to "talk" about?