Isabella Morales walked home with excitement, the test results carefully tucked in her purse. All the way, she thought about how she would share the news with her husband, Booker Blackwell. He had been away overseas for a business meeting, but he was set to return tomorrow.

The moment she stepped inside her house, her eyes caught a handbag that was not hers, and a frown formed on her face.

She recognized it instantly. It was her best friend, Cassandra Vance’s, bag. Isabella remembered it well, since they had bought the same design together at the mall not too long ago. But wasn’t Cassandra supposed to be away on a business trip?

Cassandra owned her own company and had recently started working with Booker, traveling often with him for business.

It was then that Isabella heard a voice drifting down from upstairs.

That voice… she knew it. It was Cassandra’s.

Her body trembled. Who else could Cassandra be speaking to if not Booker?

Alarmed, Isabella hurried up the stairs. The closer she got, the clearer the voices became.

“Your wife will be back soon. What are we going to do when she comes home?”

It was Cassandra’s voice.

“I don’t care about Isabella,” Booker’s deep, husky tone followed.

“You know Isabella has always dreamt of giving you a child, but it’s me who got pregnant first. How do you plan on telling her this?” Cassandra pressed.

“I don’t plan on telling her anything. Because I don’t care,” Booker answered flatly.

Isabella’s chest clenched in pain. Her heart felt like it was breaking into pieces.

Her hand had been on the door handle, but slowly, she let it fall away. She stepped back, retreating down the hallway.

She did not dare to turn back or glance at the door again. Moments ago, she had been eager to share wonderful news with her husband. Now, she walked away with a heart that had been crushed beyond repair.

Even if Isabella revealed herself, it would make no difference. She already knew the truth, that Booker did not love her.

She had been the one to push for the marriage. Her parents and his were old friends, and she had used that bond to persuade her parents to propose the union. All because she had been hopelessly in love with him.

For three years of marriage, she had struggled to give him a child. She had visited doctors across the world, tried every remedy she could, desperate to conceive.

Now, at last, she was pregnant. But instead of joy, she found herself betrayed. Her husband had turned to her best friend, had taken her into their marital bed, and worst of all, Cassandra was also carrying his child.

Isabella left the mansion, tears sliding silently down her face. Rain poured heavily, but she did not care. She walked aimlessly under the storm, the voices of her husband and best friend echoing cruelly in her mind.

It explained everything. No wonder he agreed to work so closely with Cassandra, no wonder he had gone on trips with her, no wonder he had returned and had not bothered to tell Isabella he was back.

Cassandra stood by the window, watching Isabella’s figure fading into the rain, a cold smirk curving her lips.

The truth was far darker. The voice Isabella had heard upstairs was not Booker’s at all, but the work of a skilled editor. Cassandra had used technology to mimic his words. She knew Isabella too well, knew her pride would stop her from barging into the room.

“Respect yourself. I am married to Isabella, and I will never betray her, nor will I divorce her.”

Booker’s harsh rejection replayed in Cassandra’s memory, his words from when she had once confessed her feelings.

Her chest burned with fury. With a low, bitter laugh, Cassandra pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

*******

Isabella kept walking without realizing where her steps were taking her. The rain battered her body, soaking her through, until she reached a bridge not far from her home. The storm had cleared the roads, and not a single car passed by.

Suddenly, a trailer roared down the bridge at full speed. Isabella, drowned in sorrow and pain, did not react in time.

Bang!

The impact hurled her to the edge of the bridge. Her body felt as though it had been torn apart. Thick, hot blood spilled from her forehead, slipping into her eyes and blurring her vision.

Through the haze, she saw a figure step out of the truck. The man came closer, crouched beside her, and pressed a hand beneath her nose to check her breath.

Finding her still alive, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

“Mr. Blackwell, she is breathing. Do you want me to finish her?” he asked coldly.

Mr. Blackwell? Her husband’s name.

Her heart clenched. The ache was sharper than the strike of the truck. The only Mr. Blackwell she knew was Booker, the man she had loved her entire life.

Had he truly gone this far to erase her? Was it only because she had discovered his betrayal with Cassandra? Or because he had hated her for forcing their marriage, and now saw a chance for revenge the moment Cassandra claimed to be pregnant with his child?

“Little woman, seems fate has no place for you. Blame yourself for forcing yourself on a man who never loved you,” the driver sneered.

With one brutal kick, he sent her rolling several meters toward the edge of the bridge. His body was large, his strength merciless, and her broken frame was tossed about like nothing beneath his feet.

At last, with a final shove, he flung her into the river below.

“I will find you, even in death… and I will kill you again.”

Those were the last words Isabella heard before the assassin, his smirk cold and empty, watched her body fall, the glint in his icy green eyes devoid of a trace of pity.