Finley Rhodes POV:
The hospital room felt like a gilded cage. Brody' s threats echoed in my mind, each word a link in the chain binding me to him. He had used the baby, our baby, as his ultimate weapon. I was trapped.
A few days later, I was discharged. Brody insisted I come home, a demand cloaked in concern. My parents, relieved by the news of my pregnancy and seemingly swayed by Brody's renewed "devotion," encouraged me to go. They saw a future, a family, a resolution. All I saw was a bigger, more suffocating trap.
The house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison. Every room, every object, seemed to whisper of Brody' s control. He was suddenly overly attentive, showering me with gifts, making grand gestures. All of it a performance for my family, for the public, and for himself. Every "I love you" felt like a lie, every touch like a brand.
I moved through my days in a haze, a ghost in my own life. I ate what he told me to eat, rested when he insisted. I smiled faintly when visitors came, nodding vaguely at their congratulations. Inside, I was screaming. The ache in my heart was a constant companion, a dull throb that never faded.
The only time I felt a flicker of my old self was when I secretly pulled out my old sketchbooks, the ones filled with my original designs for Project Nightingale. They were hidden deep in the back of my closet, tucked beneath a pile of cashmere sweaters. My fingers traced the lines, the architectural drawings, the detailed plans. This was my work. This was me. It was the one thing he hadn't completely stolen, though he had certainly tried.
One afternoon, a week after I'd returned home, I was sitting in the sunroom, trying to read. Brody was out, "campaigning," which I knew meant spending time with Gemma. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through me, not just from my pregnancy, but from pure disgust.
Suddenly, the front door burst open. I heard footsteps, quick and sharp, echoing through the silent house. My heart pounded. It wasn't Brody. He always announced his arrival with a loud call, an expectation of immediate attention.
"Finley!" A voice, shrill and laced with venom, cut through the quiet.
Gemma. My blood ran cold. She stood in the doorway of the sunroom, her eyes blazing, her usually perfectly coiffed hair slightly disheveled. She looked like a cornered animal, dangerous and unpredictable.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My hand instinctively went to my stomach. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced me.
"What am I doing here?" she scoffed, taking a step closer. "What are you doing here? Still clinging to him? Still playing the pathetic victim?"
Her words were like daggers, each one aimed to wound. I tried to stand, but my legs felt weak. "Get out, Gemma. This is my home."
"Your home?" she laughed, a bitter, mocking sound. "This is our home. Brody's and mine. You're just... the inconvenient obstacle. The pregnant mistake."
My stomach clenched. "Don't you dare talk about my baby."
"Oh, the baby," she sneered, her eyes narrowing. "The little trap, isn't it? The perfect PR move. You really thought that would work, didn't you? That he'd actually choose you, the sad little architect, over me? The woman who actually built his career?"
She walked towards me, her eyes filled with a terrifying rage. "He told me, Finley. He told me he'd found a way to get rid of you. That he'd get you to sign the papers. But then... the baby. You ruined everything!"
"I didn't 'ruin' anything," I said, my voice trembling. "He chose this. He chose to lie. He chose to cheat."
"He chose me!" she screamed, her face contorted with fury. "He loves me! He's just stuck with you because of your stupid family and your fake pregnancy!"
Fake pregnancy? My blood ran cold. "It's not fake!"
"Oh, isn't it?" she sneered, taking another step. "I saw the way you looked at him tonight. The way you pushed him away. He told me you don't even want this baby. He said you did it on purpose, to trap him!"
Her words were a torrent of accusations, a twisted version of reality Brody must have spun for her. The thought that he would use my pregnancy, our baby, to manipulate her too, disgusted me.
"He's lying to you, Gemma," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "He's using you, just like he uses everyone."
"No!" she shrieked, her face inches from mine. "He loves me! He promised me everything! And you... you're going to ruin it all! You're going to expose him, aren't you? You're going to tell everyone about Project Nightingale, about what a fraud he is!"
Her eyes, wild and desperate, suddenly focused on my stomach. A terrifying realization dawned in them. That I knew. That I could expose him. And that the baby, this new development, was a public relations nightmare she needed to eradicate.
"You won't get away with it," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You won't destroy us."
And then, she lunged. Her hand shot out, pushing me hard in the chest. I stumbled back, hitting the edge of the heavy oak coffee table with a sickening thud. A sharp, searing pain exploded in my abdomen, worse than anything I had felt before. My breath caught in my throat.
"Get out!" I screamed, clutching my stomach, the pain a white-hot fire.
Gemma, momentarily stunned by the impact, glared at me. "Stop pretending, Finley! You're always so dramatic!"
But then her eyes dropped. Her gaze fixed on the growing crimson stain spreading across my light-colored dress, blooming rapidly from beneath my hand. Her face went ashen, her eyes widening in horror.
"Oh my God," she whispered, taking a terrified step back.
The pain was overwhelming now, a relentless, crushing agony. I slid to the floor, my legs collapsing beneath me. The world began to spin again, darkening at the edges.
"My baby," I whimpered, the words a desperate plea. "My baby."
Gemma stared at the blood, her face a mask of pure terror. "No... no, no, no... This wasn't... I didn't mean to..."
She turned, her eyes wild, and then she bolted. I heard the frantic slam of the front door, the screech of tires outside. She was gone.
I was alone. Lying on the cold floor, clutching my bleeding stomach, the pain consuming me. My baby. Our baby. Gone.
Darkness crept in, cold and absolute.
