The Don Prayed for Me, Then Betrayed Me Chapter 04

The Don Prayed for Me, Then Betrayed Me Chapter 04

Once Lorenzo’s car pulled away, I dragged the cardboard boxes down the stairs and hauled them one by one into the townhouse’s back-alley dumpster.

I paused when I reached the rosary bracelet he’d brought me from the Snowbound Mountain Abbey.

He’d brought it back to me right after I’d woken up from the car crash.

His palms had been split open from kneeling on frozen stone, his forehead scraped raw, and he’d collapsed onto my hospital bed beside me, voice hoarse and broken.

“Elena,” he’d whispered, “I begged heaven to give you back to me. I’ll never let anything hurt you ever again.”

I’d cried and clung to him that day, fully convinced this man had fought against God himself to bring me back from death’s door.

I’d worn that rosary bracelet pressed against my skin every single day for five years.

How ridiculous it all felt now.

If the abbey’s statues held any divine power, they would’ve seen the truth: while he knelt praying for my survival, his heart belonged split between me and another woman.

Dawn broke by the time Lorenzo stumbled back inside, still reeking of Mara’s white gardenia perfume.

He spotted the half-empty closet and froze mid-step. “Elena. Where did all your things go?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but his phone blared a ringtone before I could speak.

Mara’s name lit up the screen.

Lorenzo hit decline instantly.

He finally registered how ashen my face was and lifted a hand to brush my forehead. “Are you feeling sick again?”

His fingertips never made contact—his phone buzzed once more, this time an incoming video call.

He hesitated two beats before stepping away from me to answer it, leaving the study door slightly ajar.

I peeked through the crack.

Mara stood in front of a floor-length mirror wearing a wedding gown, eyes shiny with nerves.

“Lorenzo,” she said, “do I look ugly? The waist feels a little tight on the dress.”

Lorenzo’s entire expression softened the second he laid eyes on her. “You look perfect. Don’t alter a single thing. You’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”

He paused, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Wear this dress for me tonight, okay?”

The video cut off.

I stepped forward and slid the signed divorce papers across the desk toward him. “Lorenzo. I need to talk to you—”

Lorenzo’s gaze snapped back to me, only half registering the paper in my outstretched hand.

He waved it off, distracted. “Elena, once I wrap up this current mess, we’ll head to that amusement park you wanted.”

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “There’s no need for that anymore.”

Lorenzo didn’t grasp what I meant, nor did he have time to process it. A voice note from Mara popped up on his phone.

A young boy’s childish voice crackled through the speaker. “Daddy, when are you coming? Mommy said we’re taking a family portrait today.”

Lorenzo stiffened completely.

He lifted his head to look at me, a flicker of panic flashing across his face—gone in a heartbeat, buried under a mask of composure. “Elena, I have to step out again.”

I watched him grab his suit jacket in a rush, not even glancing down at the divorce papers laid out between us on the table.

The front door slammed shut. I folded the agreement back into my bag.

There was no point pushing it now.

9 a.m. three days later, I walked into the operating room right on schedule.

As anesthesia began to fog my mind, my phone vibrated once.

A new text from Mara.

[Elena, my husband completely lost his mind last night. Midway through, he pulled out that red prayer bracelet you hand-wove for him. He said it was your good-luck blessing for his safety. But he teared up using it to mess around with me.]

A photo attachment followed.

A luxury hotel suite, clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor. My hand-woven red prayer bracelet lay discarded on the edge of the bed, the threads crumpled and stained, tarnished and ruined.

I’d stayed sick in bed for weeks after the crash, unraveling and retying each strand over sleepless nights to craft that bracelet.

Every twisted thread held my quiet prayers for his safety, my fear of losing him.

Staring at that photograph, hot tears slid down my temples.

As the anesthetic flooded my veins, I rested one hand gently over my stomach, lingering there for a long moment.

That small life inside me would be gone soon—empty, just like the space Lorenzo had once filled entirely in my heart.

3 p.m. rolled around.

After hours of post-op observation, the doctors cleared me for discharge. I boarded a private medical flight bound overseas.

I’d left in such a hurry that my folder of medical records and ultrasound scans sat forgotten at the private clinic. Lorenzo was still listed as my emergency medical proxy on every form.

Unable to reach me by phone, the head nurse dialed the emergency contact number printed on my file.

The line connected to loud, echoing chatter—definitely a wedding reception venue.

The nurse hesitated for a beat before speaking. “Hello, is this Don Lorenzo Vitale? Mrs. Vitale just underwent an abortion. Your name is listed as her emergency medical proxy. She left her full medical file at our clinic; could you come collect it at your earliest convenience?”