He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

My husband studied the fertility report on his desk with the same cold precision he used to order executions.

On our fifth anniversary, he didn't give me diamonds. He checked his Rolex and delivered the sentence that ended my life.

"Your genetic profile is defective, Catarina."

He didn't just ask for a divorce. He pressed a button on his intercom, and a woman walked in. She was loud, chewing gum, and wearing a dress that was too tight.

"This is Aria," Alex said, his voice flat. "She is a vessel. She will carry the heir your body cannot produce."

He claimed it was just business, that she would be exiled once the child was born. But at my birthday gala, when Aria tripped into a champagne tower, the truth shattered along with the glass.

I was the one bleeding, a jagged shard slicing my arm.

But Alex didn't look at me. He threw his body over her. He cradled his mistress, screaming for a doctor to check the baby, while I stood there with blood dripping onto the marble floor, completely invisible.

I watched him give his own blood to save her in the clinic later that night. I saw the way he looked at her—not like a vessel, but like a prize.

He thought I would stay. He thought I was the obedient Mafia wife who would raise his mistress's child to save the family image.

So when he handed me a stack of papers to "protect the assets," he was too arrogant to read them.

He didn't notice the header read *Decree of Divorce*.

While he was busy buying baby clothes for a child that didn't even exist, I wiped my identity from the servers, signed the papers he blindly authorized, and boarded a one-way jet to Paris.

By the time he realizes his "heir" is a fraud, I will already be a ghost.