My Husband Asked For A Second Wife (Serafina and Matteo) novel Chapter 10

Serafina

“Your driver is Marco,” Antonio says, gesturing to a guy who looks like he could bench press a small car. “And this is Lucia, your stylist.”

Lucia looks like she stepped off the pages of Vogue Italia—all sharp angles and expensive taste. She’s eyeing me like I’m a particularly challenging art project.

“We have work to do,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “The boutique is waiting.”

An hour later, I’m sitting in the most exclusive shop in the city, and they’ve literally closed it down for me. Just me, Lucia, and about six sales associates who look terrified to breathe wrong.

“Try this,” Lucia shoves a midnight blue gown at me. “Armani. Custom cut.”

“It’s gorgeous, but—”

“No buts. You’re not shopping as Serafina from the trenches anymore. You’re shopping as Donna Serafina Dorian. Act like it.”

The dress fits like it was made for me. Because apparently, it was.

“How did you get my measurements?”

“Your father’s had people watching you for years,” Lucia says, adjusting the hem. “We know everything about you, including the fact that you’re going to need this let out soon.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Nothing gets past me, cara. The way you’ve been holding your stomach, refusing wine last night. How far along are you?”

Shit. “I need to make a stop before we go home.”

Twenty minutes later, Marco’s parking outside a medical imaging center.

“I need an ultrasound,” I tell the receptionist.

“Do you have an appointment?”

I slide Antonio’s black credit card across the counter. “I need an ultrasound. Today.”

Money talks. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a dark room with Dr. Castello, who looks like she’s seen enough rich girls’ secrets to write a bestseller.

“How far along do you think you are?” she asks, squirting cold gel on my still-flat stomach.

“I have no idea. My life’s been… complicated.”

She moves the ultrasound wand around, and suddenly there’s a shape on the screen. A tiny, perfect shape with what looks like arms and legs.

“About twelve weeks,” she says. “Nearly three months.”

Three months. I’ve been carrying Matteo’s baby for three months while he was planning to replace me.

“Why don’t I look pregnant?”

“Is that—?”

“She’s supposed to be dead.”

“Who is she?”

“An imposter?”

Antonio leads me to the small stage at the front of the room, taking the microphone with steady hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice carries across the silent room, “I’d like you to meet my daughter. Serafina Dorian.”

The whispers explode. But before I can step forward to say something—anything—a familiar hand slides around my waist.

“Actually,” Matteo’s voice cuts through the noise as he takes the microphone from my father, “I believe there’s a small correction needed.”

No. No, no, no.

What the hell was he doing here?!

His arm tightens around me possessively, and when he speaks, his voice carries to every corner of the room.

“She is also my beautiful wife. So this is Serafina Dorian Verrelli.”