Broken Promises Letters From An Ex Wife complete novel free to read Wattpad

For three years, I've been the wife of Dante Moretti, the head of the Chicago Bratva. My only purpose was to give him an heir. Today, I stared at the second pink line on a pregnancy test—a death sentence.

But my husband didn't want a wife. He wanted a vessel.

Hiding outside his office door, I heard him talking to his sister, Isabella. They were placing a million-dollar bet on the gender of my unborn child.

"But what about her?" Isabella asked. "Once she gives you the heir, she’ll be useless."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

"She served her purpose," Dante said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "A broodmare is only valuable when it can produce. After that…"

He didn't have to finish. In his world, useless things are discarded. Violently. Every touch, every calculated smile had been a lie to secure his dynasty.

He saw a legacy, not a child. He saw a vessel, not a wife.

The only way to win his game was to knock the whole board over. I pulled out my phone and called the clinic my friend had told me about.

"Yes," I said, my voice a stranger’s, hollow and steady. "I'd like to schedule a termination."

Chapter 1

Elara POV:

The second pink line appeared, a death sentence scrawled in faint dye. I was carrying the heir to Dante Moretti, the head of the Chicago Bratva. For three years, this was my sole purpose. But now, it was my only leverage.

My stomach turned, a sour mix of morning sickness and pure terror. Our marriage wasn't a union; it was a contract signed in blood and sealed with my father's business debts. Dante didn't want a wife to love. He wanted a womb to produce a legacy.

I clutched the test stick, the plastic slick with sweat. I had to tell him. It was a rule. But not yet. Not until I had a plan. My foolish hope that he might soften, that a child might bridge the chasm between us, died a little more each day.

I found my legs and walked through the cold, silent mansion he called our home. Every surface was polished marble or dark wood, reflecting a distorted version of myself—a ghost in a gilded cage. His office door was slightly ajar, the low murmur of voices spilling into the hallway.

I paused, my hand hovering over the handle. His voice, a low rumble that could command armies or freeze blood, was unmistakable.