Chapter 2

I don't know how long I lasted in that basement.

The blood kept coming, pooling beneath me until everything was soaked through.

Just as consciousness began to slip away, the iron door swung open.

It wasn't Bianca. It wasn't the guard. It was the family's private physician, Dr. Bianchi.

One look at me and the color drained from his face.

"Valentina? What are you doing here?"

"The Don told me you were resting in the VIP suite, ready for delivery—"

I tried to speak but couldn't produce a sound.

All I could do was point at my belly, tears streaming endlessly.

Dr. Bianchi rushed over and knelt to examine me.

The moment his hands touched my abdomen, he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Fully dilated! Her water's broken! And she's hemorrhaging!"

"We need surgery immediately!"

He tried to lift me, but the moment I moved, a hot surge gushed between my legs.

Blood.

So much blood.

Dr. Bianchi's hands were shaking. He shouted toward the door:

"Help! Someone help! The patient is hemorrhaging!"

The corridor was empty. Not a soul answered.

This private clinic was wholly owned by the Corsetti family. Tonight, for Eleanora's delivery, the entire building had been cleared—every last nurse and doctor reassigned to the third-floor delivery suite.

Dr. Bianchi pulled out his phone to call for help, only to find there was no signal in the basement.

He gritted his teeth. "I'll carry you upstairs. Hold on!"

He heaved me into his arms and staggered toward the exit.

The stairwell was steep and dark. Every step jolted through me like a knife.

I could feel the baby descending, but the drug's lingering effects made the contractions erratic—surging one moment, vanishing the next.

That agonizing limbo made me want to die on the spot.

"Dr. Bianchi…" I clutched his collar, barely a whisper. "Save my baby. Please."

"Don't worry—you're both going to be fine!"

He finally reached the first floor and sprinted toward the operating room.

But at the door, we both froze.

The operating room stood wide open—and completely empty.

The surgical lights, the operating table, the monitors, the oxygen machine—every piece of medical equipment was gone.

Nothing remained but a bare room and a few power outlets on the walls.

Dr. Bianchi stood rigid.

I heard a strangled sound rise from his throat, like someone had seized him by the neck.

"How is this possible…"

"I checked the equipment this afternoon…"

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.

Bianca approached with two nurses in tow. Spotting us, she raised an eyebrow. "Dr. Bianchi, what are you doing down here?"

"Eleanora is on the third floor, about to deliver. Why did you wander off?"

Dr. Bianchi pointed at the gutted operating room, his voice trembling: "The equipment—where is the equipment?"

Bianca's expression was pure innocence. "Moved to the third floor."

"Eleanora's carrying the family heir. She needs a C-section—only the best equipment will do. What if there's an emergency? A standard OR would never cut it."

Her gaze drifted to me, and she smiled. "Oh, is Valentina in labor?"

"She'll have to wait. Eleanora isn't finished yet."

"Just hang in there a bit longer. It won't kill you."

I stared at that perfectly made-up face and suddenly remembered how, six months ago, she'd looped her arm through mine while shopping, cooing: "Valentina, you're so wonderful—even better than a real sister. I'm going to take such good care of you."

I'd felt sorry for her then, growing up without a mother. I'd bought her a custom bracelet worth over a hundred thousand.

Looking back now, what a colossal joke.