Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 45

Aria’s POV

The cold lake water rushed into my mouth and nose, shocking my system with its icy bite. I struggled desperately to surface, coughing and sputtering as I fought to expel the water that had invaded my lungs.

Victoria stood on the dock above me, her perfectly manicured figure silhouetted against the afternoon sky. The malicious satisfaction in her eyes was unmistakable as she watched me flail in the water, her red lips curved in a cruel smile.

"This is where you belong. Don't think that moving into the estate changes anything. Damian is just amusing himself with you—he'll tire of your type soon enough."

I tried to respond, to defend myself, but water kept filling my mouth every time I attempted to speak. My arms were growing heavy, the expensive silk blouse clinging to my skin like a second layer of ice.

"I've worked by Damian's side for five years," Victoria continued, her voice growing more vicious as she watched me struggle. "I understand everything about his preferences. I know how to make him happy, how to anticipate his needs, how to be exactly what he requires. And you—some bar girl who crawled out of the gutter—what gives you the right to live in his manor?"

The realization hit me through my panic: her feelings for Damian went far beyond professional loyalty. This wasn't just about protecting her position or maintaining workplace hierarchy. She was jealous—desperately, painfully jealous of my presence in his life.

She loves him.

The thought should have been clarifying, should have helped me understand her hostility. Instead, it only made everything more complicated. How could I explain that this wasn't about love or romance? That I was trapped in a contract I'd never wanted, carrying out a biological function for money I desperately needed?

"You don't understand—" I managed to gasp out between mouthfuls of lake water.

"I understand perfectly," Victoria cut me off, her voice rising with each word. "You're a gold-digging whore who thinks she can trap him with whatever pathetic charms you possess. But men like Damian don't rescue trash from the streets. They use it for entertainment and then discard it."

My vision was beginning to blur at the edges. The cold water was sapping my strength faster than I could compensate for it, and my waterlogged clothes felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. Each breath was becoming more difficult, each movement more labored.

I'm going to drown.

The thought came with surprising clarity. I was going to die in this artificial lake, surrounded by all the luxury money could buy, because a jealous woman had pushed me into water I couldn't escape from.

Jessica would never know what really happened to me. She'd be told some lie about an accident, and she'd spend the rest of her healthy life wondering why her sister had abandoned her right when everything was finally getting better.

My limbs were growing numb, my coordination failing. The surface of the water seemed impossibly far away, even though I couldn't be more than six feet from the dock. My lungs burned with the effort of holding what little air I'd managed to capture.

I'm sorry, Jessica. I'm so sorry.

Darkness began creeping in from the edges of my consciousness. The last thing I saw was Victoria's perfectly composed face watching my struggle with cold satisfaction, as if she were observing some mildly interesting entertainment.

Then everything went black.

The antiseptic smell hit me first—that distinctive hospital odor that seemed to permeate everything. My nose and throat burned, and my lungs felt raw and tender with each breath I managed to draw.

I opened my eyes slowly, squinting against harsh fluorescent lights. The room around me was clearly medical—white walls, monitoring equipment, the sterile efficiency that marked professional healthcare facilities. But something was different about this place. The equipment looked more expensive than what I'd seen at Sant'Anna Hospital, the furnishings more luxurious.

Through the partially open door, I could hear voices in the corridor.

The Cavalieri family's private medical facility, I realized with growing clarity. Of course they would have their own hospital.

But why was I here? How long had I been unconscious? And more importantly—

"Mr. Cavalieri is asking about her condition again," a nurse's voice drifted in from the hallway. "Should I tell him she's awake?"

My heart stopped. Damian was here?

But wasn't he supposed to be traveling for three days? How could he be back already? Had something gone wrong with his business trip, or had someone contacted him about my accident?

The sound of expensive leather shoes on polished floors announced his approach before I saw him. Even in my disoriented state, I recognized that distinctive stride—confident, controlled, carrying the weight of absolute authority.

I tried to sit up, to compose myself before he entered the room, but my body felt weak and unsteady. The effort of moving sent a wave of dizziness through my head, and I had to grip the bed rails to keep from swaying.

"Doctor Rosetti," Damian's voice carried clearly through the doorway, cold and businesslike. "I need a complete assessment of her condition."

"Of course, Mr. Cavalieri. The immediate crisis has passed, but we'll want to run additional tests to ensure there are no complications—"

"Will this affect her ability to conceive?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. I froze in the process of adjusting my position, my breath catching in my throat as the full meaning of his words sank in.

That's what he cares about. Not whether I'm hurt or traumatized or frightened. Whether this incident will interfere with his precious heir.

"We'll need to schedule a comprehensive examination to determine that. But based on her current condition, I don't anticipate any lasting impact on reproductive function."

"Good. Schedule whatever tests are necessary. I want a full report within twenty-four hours."

I should have expected this. I should have known that his primary concern would be protecting his investment, ensuring that his contracted surrogate remained viable for her intended purpose. The contract I'd signed made my role crystal clear—I was a vessel for his heir, nothing more.

But hearing it stated so clinically, so matter-of-factly, while I lay in a hospital bed recovering from nearly drowning... something twisted painfully in my chest. A hurt that had nothing to do with lake water in my lungs and everything to do with the foolish hope I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying.

What did you expect? I asked myself harshly. That he would be worried about you as a person? That he would care about your wellbeing beyond its utility to him?

The rational part of my mind knew better. I'd entered this arrangement with my eyes wide open, knowing exactly what Damian Cavalieri was and what he wanted from me. I'd signed a contract that reduced me to biological function and financial transaction. I had no right to expect concern or compassion beyond what was necessary to protect his interests.

But the irrational part—the part that remembered the way he'd looked at me during our negotiations, the way he'd called me "piccola" with something that almost sounded like affection—that part felt crushed by the cold reality of his priorities.

You're being ridiculous, I told myself firmly. He's treating you exactly as the contract specifies. This is what you agreed to.

Yet as I lay there listening to him discuss my reproductive viability with clinical detachment, I couldn't shake the hollow ache that had settled in my chest. The realization that I meant nothing to him beyond my biological usefulness shouldn't have been surprising.

So why did it hurt so much?