I waited at the altar in my wedding dress—only to hear he’d died in a fire.
Pregnant with his child, I mourned over an empty urn, trapped in the Moretti family like a caged bird.
Then one night, I heard his voice through a closed door.
He was alive. He’d faked his death just to spend his mistress’s “final” six months with her.
So I ended the pregnancy and staged a plane crash over the Atlantic—giving him a death with no body to bury.
He lost his mind. He offered millions to find me, sent all the wrong gifts, and begged on his knees for forgiveness.
But I was no longer the Anna who would wait for him to come home.
