An image consultant. Beautiful, sharp, dangerous. The kind of woman who could smell insecurity like blood in the water.
She never attacked Renata directly.
She did something worse.
She told Julian exactly what he needed to hear.
That he was strong.
Misunderstood.
Living in the shadow of a woman who was “too perfect.”
That he deserved admiration without pressure.
Julian didn’t just fall out of desire.
He fell out of envy.
What started as an affair became two years of lies, hotel rooms, and excuses.
Renata suspected late—but when she did, she observed like a doctor.
A perfume that wasn’t hers.
Receipts from distant restaurants.
Glances that lingered a fraction too long.
A new cruelty in his words.
She sensed the disease.
She just didn’t know she’d see it laid open on an operating table.
Vanessa lay pale, drenched in sweat.
“Please… save my baby,” she whispered as Renata leaned over her.
Their eyes met.
Vanessa knew exactly who she was.
But in that moment, she wasn’t the mistress.
She was a patient on the edge of collapse.
Renata examined her quickly. Ultrasound. Bleeding.
“Placental abruption,” she said. “We’re doing an emergency C-section. Now.”
The OR came alive like a battlefield.