“Tell me something,” I said, voice steady and cold against my ear as the call connected. “Do you still plan on tearing down my husband—the man you’ve sworn to hate until the day you die? Because if you do… come for me in a week. I’ll marry you.”
A low silence followed, then a slow, disbelieving laugh rolled from the other end.
“So I heard that right? Vanessa Clarke—Dominic Blackwell’s lawful wife—is finally offering to be mine? After years of saying you’d rather be buried alive?”
“Tristan,” I murmured, breath shaky, “answer the question. Do you want him destroyed?”
Another beat of quiet. “I do. But what about the child you were carrying?”
My throat closed. I forced the truth out anyway. “There’s no baby anymore. Dominic… he murdered our child.”
I ended the call before he could respond, tossing the phone beside me. My hands shook violently, but it wasn’t just my hands—my whole body felt frozen, a cold poison spreading through me, settling deep into the space where my daughter once lived.
Three days ago, everything was different. I was smiling. Hope-filled. I was finally about to meet my baby girl. Dominic was supposed to be waiting at the hospital for me. I was on the way there when a black van veered into my lane. Men in masks. Guns pointed at me.
And stupidly—God, foolishly—I assumed it was Tristan’s doing. Dominic had fed me that lie for years: If anything ever happens to you, it’ll be Tristan. He envies us. He wants you. He wants everything I have.
They jabbed something into my arm. My entire body went limp. My voice died in my throat. But my mind stayed awake—horrifyingly awake.
I felt the blade tear into me. I felt my clothes soak in my own blood. I watched them lift my tiny daughter from me, her skin translucent, her fingers curled… and I couldn’t even scream. The world went dark, but the pain stayed lodged inside me.
Then—chaos. A door crashing open. Screams. Gunshots.
I forced my head to turn and saw him—Dominic—charging in with a fury I mistook for love. One by one he shot the men who took me, blood painting the floor and walls. The last thing I remember was him kneeling beside me, his hands cupping my face.
“Stay with me, sweetheart—please—”
I thought he saved me. I thought he was my miracle.
But when consciousness returned the next day, my limbs numb and heavy from anesthesia, Dominic was sitting beside me. His shirt stained with dried blood. His expression twisted with guilt and tenderness.
He told me he “arrived too late.” That he “took care of them.” That I was finally safe.
And I believed him. Because I always did.
It wasn’t until the medicine wore thin and my eyes drifted open while he thought I was still unconscious that the illusion shattered.
He stood by the window, speaking quietly on the phone.
“Has everything been cleaned up? Were the payments handled?” he said. “Good. Make sure no one learns I arranged the kidnapping of my own wife or ordered the baby removed.”
My pulse went cold.
“Yes, sir. They won’t talk. They’re already overseas,” the man on the line answered.
“Perfect. Let her think Tristan was behind it,” Dominic replied, his voice as sharp as a blade. “This cannot get out. Not to her. Not to anyone.”
A different voice chimed in, hesitant. “Sir… we sterilized her after the procedure. Don’t you think that went too far? If she finds out—”
“She won’t,” he snapped. “I never cared for her. Isabelle was always the one I loved. Vanessa was convenient after Isabelle married my cousin. And there should only be one rightful heir—mine and Isabelle’s. That thing inside Vanessa… would have ruined everything.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream. My body refused to move, trapping me inside a nightmare I couldn’t escape.
Isabelle.
The perfect, polished socialite. Dominic’s obsession. His beginning, middle, and end. The one he promised forever to—until she abandoned him for wealth, status, and a powerful last name. She married Dominic’s cousin and left him shattered.
And I… I stupidly pieced him back together.
I stayed through his rage, his grief, his self-destruction. I helped him rise. My family warned me—begged me—not to trust him. But I ignored every warning. I handed him my love, my loyalty, my connections, every part of me.
When he proposed, I said yes without thinking—believing he’d finally stopped chasing ghosts.
But I was never more than a stand‑in. A breathing placeholder while he waited for her return.
Then her husband died. And suddenly, I was disposable.
Later that afternoon, Dominic walked into my room carrying white lilies—my least favorite flower.
He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his smile gentle, practiced. “How are you feeling, darling?”
“I lost the baby,” I whispered, watching every flicker in his eyes.
His gaze dropped for a heartbeat before he masked it with a soft smile. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re alive.”
“The doctor said I can’t conceive anymore,” I added, studying him.
He hesitated—not long, but enough. Then he pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “Children aren’t everything. We still have each other. You know how much I love you.”
I nodded, pretending I didn’t know the truth rotting beneath his words.
He stood, adjusting his suit. “I’ve got a meeting to attend. Rest for now. I’ll return soon.”
I smiled sweetly as he left the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, I reached for my phone with shaking hands.
“Hello? This is Vanessa Clarke,” I said when the lawyer answered. “I want to file for divorce from Dominic Blackwell. Effective immediately.”
