Corinne POV
The world tilted. The marble floor swam, and a tremor shook my whole frame.
I could not form a single word.
Hazel watched me struggle to breathe, her smile widening. She taunted that the blood loyalty Hudson shared with her would always outweigh his attachment to a civilian wife and child. She admitted she was the one who sent the white dresses—to put us in our place.
She pulled a sleek phone from her pocket and turned it toward me. A video started playing.
Hope stood on the edge of a gritty concrete rooftop, barefoot, tiny legs covered in bruises. She clutched a dirty stuffed rabbit.
Hazel’s voice echoed from the speaker: cruel, sharp, urging my six-year-old daughter to jump.
Hope looked at the camera, tears streaming. She cried out a broken apology to her parents.
Then she took a step off the ledge.
The video cut to black.
Hazel slipped the phone back into her pocket. She complained how annoying Hope was, admitting she had starved my daughter for three days and forced her to eat dog food.
A pure, animal rage detonated behind my eyes. I lunged at Hazel, hands wrapping around her throat, driving us toward the marble staircase.
Before my arms could lock, a heavy force slammed into my back. I tumbled down the steep stairs, head and shoulders striking hard edges.
I landed at the bottom in a crumpled heap.
Hudson stood at the top, his leg still raised from the kick. He rushed down—not to check on me, but to pull Hazel into his arms.
He harshly reprimanded me for daring to attack his blood.
I tasted copper. I started laughing, broken and unhinged. “Hope is dead,” I screamed. “Hazel tortured her and pushed her off a roof.”
Hudson’s face tightened with annoyance. He pulled out his phone, called his men, then shoved a picture in my face of Hope sleeping peacefully.
“Apologize to Hazel immediately,” he demanded.
I stared at the screen. I was a cybersecurity expert. My trained eyes caught what his missed: digital artifacts around Hope’s hairline, unnatural lighting on the pillow.
A deep fake. I’d seen enough forgeries to know. But Hudson’s blind loyalty made him refuse to look closer.
“It’s forged,” I said, my hand shaking. “Look at the pixels, Hudson. Please.”
Hazel buried her face in Hudson’s chest, playing the terrified victim. She whimpered that my curses against my own daughter were bringing bad luck. She suggested a hundred slaps to my face to ward off the evil eye.
Hudson looked down at me, cold and devoid of affection. He was blinded by his trust in his niece.
He told me my malicious behavior was unacceptable.
He authorized the punishment.
And as the guards dragged me outside, I stopped screaming. I stopped begging. I started planning.
