Erica POV
"You smell like fear," Emmanuel remarked.
He was behind the wheel, navigating the traffic with an ease that belied the tension in the car.
I remained silent, staring out the window as the city blurred into streaks of grey and steel.
"Anthony went too far," he added, his voice dropping to a register that sounded almost gentle.
But I knew better. It was a trick.
"Did he?" I asked, my gaze still fixed on the passing buildings. "Or did he do exactly what you both wanted?"
Emmanuel’s grip tightened on the leather steering wheel.
"We are going to the bridal shop," he announced, ignoring my question. "Bianca needs to pick up her dress."
"And I am going why?"
"Because she wants you there," he replied flatly. "She wants you to carry her train."
Of course she did.
We arrived at the boutique, a space so white and pristine it felt clinical.
Bianca stood on a podium in the center of the room, draped in a gown that cost more than my entire existence.
It was a masterpiece of lace and crystals.
She looked beautiful.
And utterly evil.
"There she is," Bianca sneered, catching my reflection in the mirror. "The handmaid."
She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
"Fix the hem," she ordered.
I knelt. I adjusted the delicate fabric, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life.
The shop assistants watched me with undisguised pity. They knew. Everyone knew but me.
Emmanuel watched from the corner, his heavy-lidded eyes tracking my every move.
When the fitting was done, he walked over, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.
"Here," he said, shoving it into my hand.
I opened it to reveal diamond earrings—large, flawless, and cold.
"A consolation prize?" I asked, my voice dry.
"A down payment," he whispered. "For later."
He leaned in, invading my personal space.
"Anthony marries her," he murmured against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "But I keep you. That is the arrangement. You stay in the penthouse. You stay in my bed."
His breath washed over me, a cloying mixture of mint and tobacco.
My stomach lurched violently.
It wasn't just disgust.
It was the baby.
Nausea rolled over me like a tidal wave. I gagged, unable to suppress the bile rising in my throat.
I clamped a hand over my mouth and bolted for the bathroom.
I barely made it to the toilet before I emptied my stomach, my body shaking with the force of it.
After flushing and splashing cold water on my face, I tried to compose myself.
But when I opened the door, Emmanuel was there.
He blocked the exit, staring at me with narrowed, calculating eyes.
"You are not sick," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I have an ulcer," I lied, desperation clawing at my throat. "From the stress."
He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to my stomach.
It was still flat.
But he was the Enforcer. He noticed details others missed.
He noticed that I hadn't touched wine in weeks. He noticed the pallor of morning sickness.
"You are pregnant," he said.
The air was sucked out of the room.
"No," I breathed.
"Don't lie to me," he growled, grabbing my arm.
"Is it mine?"
He knew about the switch. He knew the timeline. It had to be his.
"There is no baby," I insisted, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Let me go."
He released me, but the look on his face wasn't relief. It was terror.
Not for me. For himself.
"If Anthony finds out," he whispered, the realization dawning on him, "he will kill it. A bastard child threatens the line."
"Then don't tell him," I pleaded.
He looked at me, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, before it was extinguished by self-preservation.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Brother," he said into the receiver. "We have a problem."
I closed my eyes as my heart shattered.
He didn't hesitate.
He had sold his own child to protect his position.
I knew then that there was no saving this situation.
There was only survival.
