The pain had become my constant companion. Every breath, every heartbeat reminded me that I was still alive in this hell they called a correctional facility. My body had become a canvas of bruises and half-healed wounds, a roadmap of Rachel's systematic torture.
I was lying on my thin mattress, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate my ribs, when the door to our cell block opened. Two guards entered, their faces grim.
"Vance," the taller one called. "Medical evaluation."
I struggled to sit up, wincing as fire shot through my side. "I'm not due for—"
"Now," the guard repeated, grabbing my arm and yanking me to my feet.
Something in her tone made my blood run cold. This wasn't standard procedure.
They led me down a sterile corridor to the prison infirmary, a place I'd been denied access to countless times before. The room was empty except for a single metal bed and a man in a white coat I'd never seen before.
"This her?" he asked, not bothering to look at me directly.
"Yes," the guard replied. "Where's Dr. Morris?"
"Called away for a conference. I'm covering." He finally looked at me, his eyes clinical and detached. "Strap her down."
Before I could process what was happening, the guards forced me onto the bed and secured thick leather restraints around my wrists and ankles.
"What are you doing?" Panic rose in my throat as I struggled against the restraints. "I'm pregnant! Please!"
The doctor pulled on a latex glove with a snap that seemed to echo in the quiet room. From a metal case, he withdrew a syringe filled with clear liquid.
"Alexander sends his regards," he said quietly, almost as an afterthought.
My blood turned to ice. "Alexander? My husband?"
"He prefers to think of you as his former wife." The doctor tapped the syringe, removing air bubbles with practiced precision. "And his biggest liability."
The realization hit me with stunning clarity. They weren't going to let me live. Not with what I knew, not with the child growing inside me—Alexander's child.
"Please," I begged, tears streaming down my face. "Not my baby. You can't."
The doctor's face remained impassive as he found a vein in my arm. "It's already been arranged. Your suicide will be very convincing."
I felt the sharp sting of the needle piercing my skin, followed by a burning sensation as the poison entered my bloodstream.
"No," I whispered, fighting against the restraints as the first wave of dizziness washed over me. "No!"
The room began to blur around the edges. Colors stretched and distorted like oil on water. I could feel my heart racing, then faltering, as the toxin spread through my system.
Through the haze of pain and approaching death, I heard footsteps in the corridor outside—urgent, running footsteps.
"Emma!" A familiar voice called out, desperate and raw with emotion.
Marcus. Alexander's younger brother.
I tried to call out to him, but my tongue felt leaden in my mouth. The door burst open, and there he stood—his face pale with horror, his eyes wild with a grief I'd never seen before.
"Stop!" he shouted at the doctor. "What have you done?"
But it was too late. The poison was already coursing through my veins, shutting down my systems one by one.
"Emma," Marcus whispered, rushing to my side and taking my hand in his. "I'm so sorry. I was too late."
I wanted to tell him it was okay, that somehow I understood his pain matched my own. But all I could manage was a weak squeeze of his hand.
"I should have protected you," he continued, his voice breaking. "I knew what he was planning, but I thought I could stop it in time."
My vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light. In that moment, I saw Alexander's face in my mind—smiling, charming Alexander who had promised to love me forever. And Rachel, her eyes gleaming with malicious triumph as she watched me suffer.
If I had one wish before death claimed me completely, it was that somehow, someday, they would pay for what they'd done.
"Stay with me," Marcus pleaded, but his voice was fading, growing more distant with each passing second.
The last thing I felt was his tears falling onto my cheek, warm against my cooling skin.
Then darkness.
---
Light.
Sound.
The gentle notes of a waltz floated through the air, accompanied by the murmur of sophisticated conversation.
I opened my eyes.
Crystal chandeliers hung from an ornate ceiling. Men in tailored tuxedos and women in elegant gowns twirled across a polished ballroom floor.
"What is this?" I whispered, my hand instinctively going to my stomach—flat, not pregnant.
A server passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. I grabbed one, needing something to steady myself.
"Emma Vance," a voice behind me said. "I've been hoping to meet you all evening."
I turned slowly, the champagne trembling in my hand.
And there he stood—Alexander Sterling, devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, his smile as charming and deadly as I remembered it.
But something had changed.
Because this wasn't just any gala.
This was the night we first met.
