The person on the other end hemmed and hawed, clearly uncomfortable. "Ms. Simmons, I'm sorry, this… You should really ask Mr. Graves about it."
I was shaking with anger. I threw on my coat and rushed to the distillery, hoping there was still something I could salvage.
The moment I walked into the office, I saw Conrad going through the files on my desk.
Desiree was perched on his lap in a strapless dress, the marks on her neck telling me everything I needed to know about last night.
When he saw me, Conrad slid a transfer agreement across the desk. His tone left no room for argument. "Sign it."
"You made Desiree fall yesterday—her hand was covered in red marks—and you couldn't even bring back what I asked for, so our wedding night was ruined. Don't you think you owe us an apology?"
I took a long breath and looked at the man in front of me as though I were seeing him for the very first time.
I picked up the transfer agreement, tore it to pieces in front of him, and dropped the shreds into the trash. My voice was steady. "The distillery is what my parents left me. You have no right to take it."
He pulled out his phone without a flicker of concern.
The next second, stories broke—safety hazards, tainted ingredients, one accusation after another raining down on the distillery.
Conrad raised an eyebrow and tapped the desk in a lazy, uneven rhythm. "Tracey, the distillery's gone either way. You're my wife—that alone is enough to keep you fed."
"If you enjoy working here that much, I'll let you keep showing up."
I met his contemptuous gaze.
I knew he was capable of it.
If I didn't sign, the distillery wouldn't last another thirty minutes.
The man who once told me the Graves Group stood behind the distillery was now the one standing against it.
Even knowing that, it still hurt.
I held his stare, my eyes burning red against my will. "Fine. I'll sign."
Conrad reached over and stroked the top of my head. "That's more like it."
When Desiree got the signed transfer agreement, she rubbed her belly and announced, gloating, "Look, baby. This is the gift Daddy prepared for your arrival."
"You're the sole heir to the Graves Group now."
Then her gaze drifted down to my stomach. "Tracey, you should really take care of that pregnancy. You don't even know who the father is—the Graves family isn't going to foot the bill for someone else's child."
I paused, then spoke slowly, word by word. "Sole heir to the Graves Group. So what? As long as I don't agree to a divorce, the child in your belly will always be illegitimate."
"And you will always be the other woman."
4
The color drained from her face. She looked instinctively toward Conrad.
His brow was knotted tight, his voice low with warning. "Tracey. Don't push it."
I had nothing left to say to either of them. I just wanted one last look at the distillery before I walked out.
Conrad stepped in front of me, his eyes ice-cold.
Before I could react, a vein throbbed at his temple and he lunged forward, his hand clamping around my throat. "Tell me. Where did you take Desiree's parents?"
My face flushed dark red from the lack of air. It took everything I had to force out a single word. "What?"
Desiree flung herself to her knees at my feet, sliding forward, face tilted up—all wide eyes and trembling helplessness. "Tracey, I'm sorry. I'll never carry Conrad's child again, I swear."
"Please, just let my parents go."
It turned out that half an hour ago, Desiree's parents had disappeared.
They were last seen somewhere near the distillery.
So naturally, they had decided I was the one who'd taken them.
I could barely find the words to argue back. "I don't even know them. How would I have any idea where they went?"
I wouldn't say what he wanted to hear, because there was nothing to say—and the last of Conrad's patience burned out.
Dozens of liquor bottles lined up in front of me.
Conrad's voice, ice-cold:
"Tracey. You did something wrong. Now you pay."
Then glass after glass of liquid was poured down my throat.
The burn of alcohol tore through me.
My stomach felt like it was on fire.
Every time I passed out, a bucket of ice water came crashing over my head. The cold drove straight into my bones, and I clenched my teeth, shaking so hard I couldn't stop.
The clear water pooling beneath me slowly turned red.
My voice came out broken, half-sobbing: "Conrad, take me to the hospital. I think I'm losing the baby."
He stepped back two paces in disgust. "So it's gone. Big deal—we'll make another one."
"Didn't you just call her child a bastard? We're done. The second we're back, I'm filing for divorce. Desiree is going to stand beside me the way she should have from the start."
I don't know how long it went on. The cramping folded me in half, wave after wave, until my body gave out and the world dropped away.
At the same moment, a bodyguard burst in, panicked: "Mr. Graves, there's a fire!"
The flames were spreading fast.
Conrad started toward me—toward where I lay crumpled on the ground.
Behind him, Desiree suddenly clutched her stomach and doubled over coughing. "Conrad, my stomach hurts…"
He didn't hesitate. He swept Desiree into his arms and ran, and over his shoulder came the words: "Tracey, wait for me. I'll come back for you."
His silhouette vanished from my sight.
The moment they were gone, a massive explosion ripped through the distillery.
Firelight stained Conrad's face red, and he froze mid-step.
