The Principessa Has Thorns
When I was seven months pregnant with the Gallo family heir, my husband, Austen Santoro—the heir apparent of the Santoro family—and his right-hand woman, Sonia Vitali, flaunted their intimacy in front of everyone at a private dinner celebrating a successful "business" deal.
The night was dark, and I hid in the shadows of a corner, quietly sipping my soda water.
Suddenly, Sonia stumbled, collapsing right into Austen's arms. "Clean this wound for me, will you? And don't just swab it this time. I can't afford another scar."
For a moment, I thought I had misheard.
Without a second thought, my husband, Austen Santoro, poured whiskey from the table onto a piece of gauze and began dabbing the wound on her chest. "Always so dramatic, aren't you? I'll make sure it's clean. No scar."
Sonia gave him a playful shove. "Since when do you care? Last I heard, my shooting style was 'too wild' for your taste."
Whistles and catcalls erupted from the other family members.
As Austen's fingers brushed past her collarbone and paused at the edge of the wound, his eyes instinctively flickered to me. But Sonia grabbed his hand, pressing it deeper against her skin. "A little closer," she purred.
"Don't worry, Alessia," Sonia said, her voice dripping with false concern. "He's used to this. It's just a wound. Surely our Principessa isn't the jealous type, right?"
Sonia flashed the Santoro family ring on her finger and said to me provocatively, "Austen's touch is always so gentle. You of all people should know that, right?"
I snorted and turned away to send a message to my lawyer.
Jealousy wasn't the word. They just had to go.