Pampered By The Rival Syndicate Don

As I lay in the cold underground clinic, terminating the unborn heir of the city's most feared mafia underboss, my phone lit up.

My fiancé of seven years had just publicly pledged his protection and a home-cooked meal to his ex-lover, moments after telling me to risk a deadly ambush by ordering takeout.

When I returned to our penthouse, bleeding and broken, he didn't even notice.

He gave my specialized prenatal milk to his ex because she had a "delicate stomach," leaving me only a hollowed-out egg white and dry crusts.