The Double Life of My Pregnant Ex-Wife (Carmen and Marco) novel Chapter 11

Carmen sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on the window. A breeze pushed through the slightly open glass, stirring the pale curtains. Outside, the sprawling countryside stretched endlessly, golden under the soft afternoon sun. It was quiet here, too quiet, the kind of stillness that let memories creep in without warning.

A firm knock on the door pulled her back. She turned as it opened.

“Is this what you wanted?” Vincent Rossi’s voice carried the faintest edge of mockery as he entered the room. He held a glass of water and a bowl of soup, setting them on the small table near her. “Peace and quiet? You look miserable.”

Carmen met his gaze. “It’s more than I’ve had in weeks.”

Vincent leaned casually against the wall, his sharp blue eyes studying her. He looked so different from Marco—where Marco’s presence burned with fire and heat, Vincent’s was cold steel. He was handsome, though, in a way that always made people uneasy.

“And yet you come here, to me,” he said, his voice low. “You must be truly desperate.”

Carmen flinched at the word. “I didn’t have a choice, Vincent. You know that.”

“I know you ran.” He shrugged, the movement careless, but his tone wasn’t. “From him. After everything, you end up on my doorstep.”

Carmen looked away, her fingers twisting the fabric of her sleeve. “I didn’t come for a fight. I needed… somewhere safe.”

“Safe,” Vincent repeated, pushing off the wall and moving closer. “You think this place is safe? You think I’m safe?”

“You’re not Marco,” she said quietly, but her words hung heavy between them.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “That’s right. I’m not him. I wouldn’t have let it get this far.”

The silence after that was sharp. Carmen didn’t look up. She felt him staring, waiting for her to break, to say something—anything—that would explain why she’d turned up uninvited, carrying secrets like landmines.

“Why are you really here, Carmen?” Vincent’s voice softened, but the edge never fully disappeared. “Does he know where you are?”

“No.”

“Is he looking for you?”

“…Yes.”

Vincent smirked bitterly and turned toward the door. “Of course he is. Marco Venetti doesn’t like losing.”

She didn’t reply. What could she say? Everything she might have answered felt like betrayal—of Marco, of herself.

Vincent paused at the doorway. “Don’t expect me to play savior, Carmen. I don’t forget the past as easily as you seem to.”

“I don’t expect anything,” she said softly, finally meeting his gaze. “I just want a little time to breathe.”

Vincent hesitated, his eyes flicking over her tired face before he disappeared down the hall. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Carmen alone with the soup that had already gone cold.

The room felt too big. She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, but her mind drifted to a different place entirely—a night bathed in soft lamplight and laughter.

“You don’t think I’ll do it?”

Carmen’s younger self, years ago, sat on the edge of the Venetti estate’s fountain. Her white dress rippled in the summer air. Marco stood in front of her, grinning like a boy half his age.

“I don’t,” she teased, laughing softly. “You’re too proud to act like a fool in front of everyone.”

“You underestimate how much of a fool I’ll be for you,” he said, his grin widening. Without warning, he kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt halfway, and stepped straight into the fountain, splashing water everywhere.

“Marco!” Carmen gasped, jumping back as water sprayed her dress.