Send my father’s men. City General. Now.
I hit send on the encrypted message and dropped the phone onto the sterile hospital bed.
The agonizing, hollow emptiness in my abdomen—the graveyard of my unborn twins—had completely numbed me to any physical pain. I didn't shed a single tear.
The weak, submissive wife who loved Damon had died on this operating table, her heart flatlining the moment he authorized the doctors to let my babies die.
The heavy door to my room suddenly clicked open.
It wasn't my men.
It was Chloe.
Chloe closed the door behind her and walked to the foot of my bed, a sickeningly sweet smile playing on her glossy lips.
“You look terrible, Katherine,” she said, her voice dripping with fake pity.
I stared at her, my eyes dead and emotionless. I didn't say a word.
Chloe chuckled, trailing a perfectly manicured fingernail along the cold metal railing of my bed.
“I just came to say thank you,” she whispered, leaning in closer. “Your blood worked wonders. Though, to be completely honest… Leo didn't really need it.”
My jaw tightened imperceptibly.
“He wasn't sick,” Chloe laughed softly, a cruel, melodic sound. “A slight iron deficiency, maybe. But Dr. Evans is heavily on my payroll. It was so incredibly easy to convince Damon that little Leo was dying.”
She stood up straight, smoothing out the silk of her expensive gown.
“I knew you were pregnant, Katherine. I couldn't let a biological Salvatore heir ruin my plans. So, I created an emergency. And Damon… well, Damon didn't even hesitate to drain you dry for me.”
She reached into her designer clutch and pulled out a folded piece of heavy-stock paper, tossing it onto my lap. A sleek silver pen followed, clattering against my leg.
“Damon and I have a dinner date right now,” Chloe said, checking her diamond-encrusted watch. “He’s booking the venue for our wedding as we speak. I want you gone before we get back.”
I looked down at the paper.
It was a legally binding agreement. A promise to disappear, to never contact Damon again, and to forfeit any claim to the Salvatore name or assets.
“Sign it,” Chloe demanded, crossing her arms, her mask of sweetness dropping into a vicious sneer. “You have nothing left. Your babies are dead. Damon hates you. Sign the paper, crawl out of this hospital, and disappear. Or I’ll make sure Damon finishes the job.”
I picked up the silver pen.
Without a single second of hesitation, I signed my name at the bottom of the page.
Chloe’s eyes lit up with absolute, intoxicating victory. She snatched the paper from my lap, blowing gently on the wet ink.
“Good girl,” she smirked, turning her back on me and walking toward the door. “Have a nice life, Katherine. Or whatever is left of it. Bye-bye.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Less than two minutes later, the door opened again.
Six men filed into the room. The lead operative, a tall man with a scar across his jaw, bowed his head slightly.
“Miss Sterling,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Your father’s men are here. The perimeter is secured. We await your orders.”
I reached for the IV lines taped to my hand and ripped them out. A fresh trail of blood dripped down my wrist, staining the white sheets, but I ignored it.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. My body was weak, but the pure, unadulterated venom pumping through my veins kept me standing tall.
“Clear the hallway,” I said, my voice cold and steady.
I walked over to my belongings and pulled out a sleek, black velvet box I had prepared months ago. I handed it to the operative.
“Have this delivered to Damon Salvatore at his dinner venue immediately,” I ordered. “Today is our third wedding anniversary. It’s time he received his gift.”
Inside that box was the charred silver locket I wore the night I pulled him from the fire—the one Chloe claimed she had lost. Beneath it were Dr. Evans's real medical logs proving Leo was never sick, and a printed transcript of Chloe's texts to her criminal ex-boyfriend, Marcus Thorne, bragging about scamming the "Salvatore idiot."
“Consider it done,” the operative said, taking the box. “And your destination, ma'am?”
I looked toward the wall that separated my room from the VIP Pediatric Ward.
“Go to the pediatric suite next door,” I ordered, my eyes hardening into pure, unbreakable ice. “Take the baby with us.”
The operative didn't blink. “Understood. And if there is resistance?”
“I don't care,” I replied coldly. “If they killed my children, then I am taking theirs.”
Thirty thousand feet in the air, the private jet hummed.
Across the aisle, three-year-old Leo slept soundly, wrapped in a cashmere blanket.
I picked up my phone and snapped a picture of the sleeping boy. Opening an editing app, I quickly darkened the lighting, added a sickly pallor to his skin, and painted a harsh, dark purple shadow across his temple to mimic a severe bruise.
In the photo, he looked lifeless. Broken.
I attached the image to a message addressed to Damon.
I hit send.
Seconds later, my newly acquired phone vibrated on the polished mahogany table next to me.
The screen lit up.
Caller ID: Damon Salvatore.
A slow, chilling smirk spread across my face.
