The Don’s 89-Point Wife Chapter 04
“Who gave you permission to go through my things?”
Adriano snatched the ledger away, real anger showing on his face for the first time.
I placed the premarital evaluation sheet in front of him.
“So you didn’t propose because you loved me.”
“Marriage in the Marchetti family requires rational choices.”
“Isabella scored a hundred. Why didn’t you choose her?”
His fingers paused.
“She isn’t suitable for the Marchetti family.”
I understood.
Isabella was a shadow the Ricci family had taken from an orphanage and trained. Her background was unknown, and her father owed millions of euros to casinos in Monte Carlo.
All she could offer the Marchetti family was loyalty.
She had no value as a marriage alliance.
Meanwhile, the Southeast Asian business connections my father Bellandi had left me, along with my fifteen percent voting rights in the family trust, were enough to make up for that missing point.
“And me? I was just suitable?”
Adriano was silent for a moment, then answered for me.
“What else?”
The pain in my lower abdomen was getting worse.
I gripped the edge of the desk to stay upright.
“You pursued me for three years. Waited outside the interpreting center for me. Stayed with my mother through her last treatment. Was all of that part of the evaluation too?”
“Getting to know a potential spouse is necessary.”
“And when you told me I didn’t have to be perfect?”
“To lower your guard.”
“The day you proposed, you said I’d be the only woman you’d ever choose.”
He frowned.
“Elena, people say what fits the moment. You didn’t actually believe that, did you?”
I nodded.
So every word I’d treasured had only been the right answer for another step in his process.
His phone rang.
Isabella was crying.
“Adriano, the European media are accusing me of taking credit for the manuscript. The publisher wants to cancel the whole release. Can you come?”
Adriano picked up his coat.
I blocked the study door.
“I contacted the publisher.”
“Withdraw the complaint.”
“No.”
“Isabella agreed to keep your mother’s name. What more do you want?”
“She altered the manuscript. She deleted what my mother wrote to me.”
“That line doesn’t affect the content.”
He walked past me.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Adriano, what if I need you right now?”
“Don’t compete for attention like this.”
“I’m not.”
The pain spread through my abdomen, and even my voice shook.
“I’m asking once. Can you stay today?”
His eyes paused on my pale face.
Then Isabella cried again through the phone.
“Adriano, reporters are outside. I’m really scared.”
He gently peeled my fingers from his sleeve.
“Isabella’s preview affects the family’s reputation in Europe’s cultural circles. Go rest. I’ll come back when I’m done.”
Before the study door closed, he added one last sentence.
“Sign the authorization before I get back. Today’s performance: sixty.”
I listened to the cars drive away and slowly sank to the floor.
Blood seeped beneath my skirt, dripping onto the oak floor.
I pulled out my phone and called a public-hospital ambulance.
I didn’t call the family’s Dr. Rossi.
From tonight on, I didn’t want anyone from this family touching my body.
On the way to the hospital, a nurse asked where my family was.
I stared at Adriano’s number on my screen but didn’t press it.
“I don’t have any.”
The baby couldn’t be saved.
The doctor handed me a small box containing the bloodstained pregnancy report and the blurry ultrasound photo.
“You were eight weeks pregnant. Your husband didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
I put the box in my bag and completed the discharge paperwork alone.
As I left, a European media outlet sent me a video from the preview.
Adriano stood in front of Isabella, telling the cameras the Marchetti family would take responsibility for the controversy.
A reporter asked who mattered more—his wife or Isabella.
He answered calmly, “My wife is Signora Marchetti. She should consider the bigger picture. Isabella is the project lead. I can’t let her take the blame.”
Below the video was a message from Isabella.
Guess whether he’ll come home to you tonight.
Elena, Signora Marchetti is only a position. I’m the exception.
I didn’t reply.
Back at the estate, I signed two documents.
The first was a revocation of proxy voting authority, drafted by Steiner & Voss, the law firm of Julian Voss’s family.
The second was a civil divorce petition.
I put my wedding ring, the ultrasound photo, and the black scoring ledger into a box.
The silver Montegrappa pen lay on top.
On the back of the premarital evaluation sheet, I wrote one sentence.
Our baby never got the chance to be born. It doesn’t need your score.
At three in the morning, I left the estate with my luggage.
Adriano texted me.
The preview is over.
The authorization is in the study. I want your signature on it tomorrow morning.
He still thought I’d be waiting at home like always.
I didn’t block him.
I only replied:
Signed.
Then I turned off my phone and handed my first-class ticket to Geneva to the border officer.
At the same time, the revocation bearing my signature was being delivered by my lawyer to the Marchetti family council.