Page 18 of Forbidden Vengeance

Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

My hands drift to my still-flat stomach, and bile rises in my throat. Was it the antibiotics last month for that sinus infection? Did they interact with the pills?

Or that weekend in the Hamptons when food poisoning had me vomiting for hours—did that compromise their effectiveness?

The marble is ice-cold against my thighs as I slide to the floor, mind spinning through possibilities. I’ve seen what pregnancy does to women in this world. How it binds them, traps them, makes them vulnerable. Look at Bella—even with Matteo’s protection, her pregnancy has made her a target.

A baby wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, not with all my precautions. I press my palms against the cool marble, trying to ground myself as memories of Anthony’s touch make my skin crawl.

All those careful calculations, all those meticulously planned encounters, and somehow I still lost control.

My phone buzzes on the counter, distracting me from my panicking thoughts:Miss you, beautiful. Dinner tonight? I have something special planned. Wear that red dress I like.

The sight of Anthony’s name makes bile rise in my throat, but my mind is already racing ahead.

A baby changes everything. A Calabrese heir growing in my womb—it’s leverage I never expected, access I couldn’t have planned. The perfect cover for gathering deeper intelligence, for proving myself more valuable than just another society girl playing at power.

But it’s also a liability. A Calabrese baby means I’ll never be free of them. If Anthony claims this child as his heir…

My hand trembles as I rest it on my still-flat stomach.

I’ve seen what this world does to children born into power. Look at Bianca, look at Mario and Matteo—all of them scarred by their birthright in different ways.

I look again at Anthony’s text. Every instinct screams to cancel, to buy myself time to think. I could claim a migraine, a last-minute event crisis, anything to avoid sitting across from him tonight while carrying this secret.

But that’s exactly why I need to go.

The thought crystallizes as I watch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look the same—perfectly styled hair, no hint of the morning sickness that’s been plaguing me for days. No one would guess that beneath my composed exterior, everything has changed.

My fingers hover over the phone screen. This is what I do, isn’t it? Turn complications into advantages, find leverage in unexpected places.

I think of Bella, how her pregnancy bound her so tightly to the DeLuca family that no one questions her presence in their inner circle anymore. Even Matteo’s most paranoid captains accept her now, seeing only a beloved wife carrying the next generation.

Could I play that same role in the Calabrese empire? Not just the ambitious mistress, but the mother of the heir—someone who needs to be protected, trusted, included.

The nausea rises again, but I swallow it down. This isn’t the time for weakness. Mario’s voice echoes in my head:“The best cover is the one people write for themselves, little planner. Let them see what they expect to see.”

I pick up my phone, fingers steady as I type:Can’t wait. Reservation at 8? The red dress is at the cleaners, but I have something else you’ll love.

His response is immediate:Car will pick you up at 7:30. Don’t keep me waiting.

The command in his tone would have irritated me before, but now it just confirms I’m making the right choice. Anthony Calabrese likes to feel in control—it’s why he never questions why a high-end event planner would be so eager to warm his bed.

Men like him always underestimate women they think they own.

I stand, letting my silk robe pool at my feet as I walk to my closet. Not the red dress—that would be too obvious, too eager to please. Instead, I select a black Versace that makes me look expensive but not desperate.

The neckline is conservative enough for a business dinner, but the way it hugs my curves leaves little to imagination.

Perfect for a woman who doesn’t know she’s carrying his heir.

The bathroom counter is still littered with evidence—pregnancy test boxes, the tests themselves. I gather everything methodically, wrapping it in paper before burying it deep in the kitchen trash.

No one can know. Not yet.

Not until I figure out how to play this to my advantage.

My makeup routine is automatic—concealer under eyes that have seen too little sleep, contouring to sharpen cheekbones that haven’t yet betrayed morning sickness, a nude lip that won’t leave telling marks on wine glasses I won’t actually drink from.

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