Izzy POV
The phone rang the next morning, shattering the heavy, oppressive silence of the penthouse.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space where Austen should have been. The sheets were cold; he had left before I woke up.
I picked it up. It was Austen.
"Izzy," he said, his voice smooth, charming-the melodic baritone I had foolishly fallen in love with. "I want to apologize for last night. I was out of line."
Relief flooded my chest, warm and blinding, washing away the ache of the previous night.
"It's okay," I said quickly, the words tumbling out in my desperation. "I know you're under a lot of pressure."
"No, it is not okay," he insisted, sounding painfully sincere. "I want to make it up to you. I'm hosting a private celebration tonight. Just close friends and family. At the old meatpacking warehouse in the district. I want to honor you. And the baby."
The meatpacking warehouse was one of the family's oldest holdings, a relic from the days when bodies were disposed of with the same efficiency as the cattle.
It seemed like a grotesque choice for a celebration, but I was so starved for his affection, so desperate to believe in us, that I choked down the rising bile of doubt.
"I will be there," I promised.
I dressed in a silver gown that draped over my baby bump, trying to look like the queen he claimed he wanted me to be. I drove myself, the city lights blurring past like streaks of neon rain as I rehearsed what I would say to him.
I would tell him I loved him. I would tell him we could rule together.
When I arrived, the warehouse was dark, looming against the skyline like a bruised thumb. The massive steel doors were slightly ajar.
I walked in, my heels clicking ominously on the concrete floor.
"Austen?" I called out, my voice swallowed by the shadows.
The smell hit me first. Rust and old ice. Then, a heavy metal clang echoed behind me, final as a gunshot.
I spun around, but it was too late.
A blinding light flickered on overhead. I blinked, disoriented, shielding my eyes. I was not in a ballroom. I was standing inside an industrial freezer, a pristine, glass-walled box erected in the center of the warehouse floor.
I rushed to the glass, pressing my hands against it. The surface bit into my palms, freezing cold.
"Austen!" I screamed.
Beyond the glass, the rest of the warehouse was suddenly illuminated by warm, golden lights. A crowd of people stood there, holding champagne flutes like spectators at a gladiator match.
They were the city's elite-the corrupt politicians and socialites who leeched off the Vancini power. And in the center of them stood Austen.
He was smiling. His arm was wrapped possessively around Deb Noble.
She was not in the hospital. She was wearing a red dress that clung to her body like a second skin, looking healthy, vibrant, and utterly cruel. She raised her glass to me, her lips curling into a triumphant smirk.
Austen walked to a microphone stand set up in front of the glass cage. His voice boomed through the speakers inside the freezer, distorted and god-like.
"Welcome to the party, Izzy," he said. "You said you were hot yesterday. I thought you could use some cooling down."
The crowd laughed. It was a jagged, ugly sound, scraping against my nerves.
"Austen, let me out!" I screamed, pounding on the thick glass until my knuckles bruised. "This is not funny! The baby!"
He stepped closer to the glass, his eyes dead, void of any humanity.
"There is no baby, Izzy. Not for me. Just a ticket to the trust fund. And now that your father is dead, I am the one punching the ticket."
My blood ran cold, colder than the sub-zero air biting at my skin.
I fumbled for my phone in my clutch. My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped it. I dialed the one number I knew by heart. The number that was supposed to be disconnected.
Austen saw the phone. He laughed, a sound of pure arrogance.
"Who are you calling? Daddy? He is worm food, Izzy."
The line clicked.
"Isolde."
My father's voice was rough, but unmistakably alive.
"Daddy," I sobbed, the word tearing from my throat. "He locked me in the freezer. Austen. He is taking everything."
"I know," Ezra Vancini said. His voice was calm, terrifyingly so-the calm before a massacre. "Keep the line open. Do not let them see you are talking to me. I am coming."
"He is not dead," I whispered, looking up at Austen, my eyes locking onto his.
Austen tapped the glass with his signet ring.
"You look like a trapped rat, darling. It suits you."
Deb leaned into the microphone, her voice dripping with poison.
"You know, Austen, she looks a little flushed. Maybe we should lower the temperature."
Austen nodded to a man standing by a control panel.
"Let's liven up the party," he said.
