He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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Revenge isn't rushed—it's patience wrapped in silk. A whisper before the scream. And tonight, I was both.
The Venetian Grand glittered under the city lights, its golden chandeliers bathing the sea of elites in a warm glow. The air smelled like money, power, and overpriced perfume. And I? I fit right in.
I smoothed my hand over the curve of my navy satin dress—the slit high enough to tease but never desperate. My hair, now raven black, cascaded in perfect waves, and my once-soft brown eyes had been replaced by piercing ice-blue. A ghost wrapped in designer silk.
I plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, every movement effortless. Every step, every glance, every smile—I'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times. I was ready.
Then I saw him.
Lorenzo.
Standing across the room like a king in his black tux, his sharp jawline even more pronounced in the dim light. He looked the same. And yet... not. His grip on the whiskey glass was too tight. His shoulders tense beneath that practiced charm. Haunted.
By me.
Good.
I took a slow sip of champagne, feeling the exact moment his gaze locked onto mine. The world tilted for him—I saw it. The crack in his mask. The falter in his grip. His eyes darkened, and just like that, he schooled his expression, tilting his head like he couldn't quite place me.
I smiled. The kind designed to lure, to intrigue, to ruin.
Lorenzo held my gaze a beat too long before forcing himself back into conversation with some politician I couldn't care less about. But the damage was done. He was thinking about me. And the game had only just begun.
"Who the hell is she?" Isabella's voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, her manicured claws digging into Lorenzo's arm as she stared me down.
Lorenzo barely glanced at her. "No one."
She scoffed. "That's not no one. That's—"
"I don't know her." But his voice lacked conviction. He wasn't sure. And that terrified Isabella more than anything.
I watched her watching me—the way her lips pressed into a bloodless line, how her nails marked Lorenzo's sleeve like a claim.
Then I saw him. Dante.
Arrogant. Smug. Every inch his father's son. My chest ached, an old wound tearing open. Amara should've been here. Not him.
I remembered how Lorenzo used to beam when he introduced Amara—his little mafia princess, his heir.
"She'll rule beside me one day," he'd told his men, pride thick in his voice. "She's a De Luca through and through."
But then came Isabella. And Dante. And suddenly, Amara wasn't enough.
He'd always wanted a son. I knew that. But I never thought he'd erase her—our daughter—just because I couldn't give him the heir he craved.
The miscarriages. The hollow apologies. The nights he'd whisper, "We'll try again," like it was some consolation.
But we never did. And when Isabella gave him a son, he stopped trying altogether.
Now Dante stood in Amara's place, wearing the De Luca name like a crown.
Not my daughter. Never my daughter.
The pain clawed at my ribs, but I swallowed it, turning my attention back to Isabella. I tilted my head, raising my champagne flute in a silent toast.
Her eyes burned with suspicion. Good. Let her doubt. Let her unravel.
By the time the gala ended, I'd danced with two senators, flirted with a CEO's son, and left my name on everyone's lips. But my real work had already begun.
While the De Lucas toasted their wealth, a different storm was brewing.
Hours before stepping into that ballroom, I'd leaked whispers to every major outlet—hints about Lorenzo's crumbling empire, his losses, his weakness.
By morning, headlines would scream: De Luca Holdings in Freefall—Mafia Empire Under Siege.
A ripple today. A tsunami tomorrow.
As I stepped into the cool night air, I felt her before I heard her.
"I know what you're doing, bitch."
Isabella's voice was razor-sharp.
I didn't turn. Didn't need to. "You'll have to be more specific, darling."
She stepped into my line of sight, eyes blazing. "Stay away from Lorenzo."
I laughed, all feigned innocence. "Trouble in paradise?"
"He's mine." Her voice wavered. "He'll never want you."
I leaned in, close enough to smell her fear. "Then why are you shaking?"
For the first time, I saw it—real fear flickering in her eyes.
She knew. I wasn't just some socialite.
I was worse.
With a smirk, I brushed past her, leaving my words hanging in the wind: "Sleep well, Isabella."
Because soon, she wouldn't sleep at all.
And their world?
It would burn.
The Venetian Grand glittered under the city lights, its golden chandeliers bathing the sea of elites in a warm glow. The air smelled like money, power, and overpriced perfume. And I? I fit right in.
I smoothed my hand over the curve of my navy satin dress—the slit high enough to tease but never desperate. My hair, now raven black, cascaded in perfect waves, and my once-soft brown eyes had been replaced by piercing ice-blue. A ghost wrapped in designer silk.
I plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, every movement effortless. Every step, every glance, every smile—I'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times. I was ready.
Then I saw him.
Lorenzo.
Standing across the room like a king in his black tux, his sharp jawline even more pronounced in the dim light. He looked the same. And yet... not. His grip on the whiskey glass was too tight. His shoulders tense beneath that practiced charm. Haunted.
By me.
Good.
I took a slow sip of champagne, feeling the exact moment his gaze locked onto mine. The world tilted for him—I saw it. The crack in his mask. The falter in his grip. His eyes darkened, and just like that, he schooled his expression, tilting his head like he couldn't quite place me.
I smiled. The kind designed to lure, to intrigue, to ruin.
Lorenzo held my gaze a beat too long before forcing himself back into conversation with some politician I couldn't care less about. But the damage was done. He was thinking about me. And the game had only just begun.
"Who the hell is she?" Isabella's voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, her manicured claws digging into Lorenzo's arm as she stared me down.
Lorenzo barely glanced at her. "No one."
She scoffed. "That's not no one. That's—"
"I don't know her." But his voice lacked conviction. He wasn't sure. And that terrified Isabella more than anything.
I watched her watching me—the way her lips pressed into a bloodless line, how her nails marked Lorenzo's sleeve like a claim.
Then I saw him. Dante.
Arrogant. Smug. Every inch his father's son. My chest ached, an old wound tearing open. Amara should've been here. Not him.
I remembered how Lorenzo used to beam when he introduced Amara—his little mafia princess, his heir.
"She'll rule beside me one day," he'd told his men, pride thick in his voice. "She's a De Luca through and through."
But then came Isabella. And Dante. And suddenly, Amara wasn't enough.
He'd always wanted a son. I knew that. But I never thought he'd erase her—our daughter—just because I couldn't give him the heir he craved.
The miscarriages. The hollow apologies. The nights he'd whisper, "We'll try again," like it was some consolation.
But we never did. And when Isabella gave him a son, he stopped trying altogether.
Now Dante stood in Amara's place, wearing the De Luca name like a crown.
Not my daughter. Never my daughter.
The pain clawed at my ribs, but I swallowed it, turning my attention back to Isabella. I tilted my head, raising my champagne flute in a silent toast.
Her eyes burned with suspicion. Good. Let her doubt. Let her unravel.
By the time the gala ended, I'd danced with two senators, flirted with a CEO's son, and left my name on everyone's lips. But my real work had already begun.
While the De Lucas toasted their wealth, a different storm was brewing.
Hours before stepping into that ballroom, I'd leaked whispers to every major outlet—hints about Lorenzo's crumbling empire, his losses, his weakness.
By morning, headlines would scream: De Luca Holdings in Freefall—Mafia Empire Under Siege.
A ripple today. A tsunami tomorrow.
As I stepped into the cool night air, I felt her before I heard her.
"I know what you're doing, bitch."
Isabella's voice was razor-sharp.
I didn't turn. Didn't need to. "You'll have to be more specific, darling."
She stepped into my line of sight, eyes blazing. "Stay away from Lorenzo."
I laughed, all feigned innocence. "Trouble in paradise?"
"He's mine." Her voice wavered. "He'll never want you."
I leaned in, close enough to smell her fear. "Then why are you shaking?"
For the first time, I saw it—real fear flickering in her eyes.
She knew. I wasn't just some socialite.
I was worse.
With a smirk, I brushed past her, leaving my words hanging in the wind: "Sleep well, Isabella."
Because soon, she wouldn't sleep at all.
And their world?
It would burn.
End of He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby book page.