Blood slicked the marble beneath me, tracing pale veins like a painting gone wrong. I could taste iron, feel the tremor in my limbs, and yet my mind replayed it all with brutal clarity. One moment I was halfway down the grand staircase, my hand on the banister — the next, Nathan’s palm struck between my shoulders, hard, cold, deliberate. There hadn’t been anger in his eyes. Just resolve.
I fell fast — spine colliding with the steps, head snapping back on the final one. The impact tore the breath from me. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then came the pain — deep, blooming, endless. Four months pregnant, barely showing. Not that Nathan ever noticed.
He stood above me now, his voice mechanical. “That’s Dr. Whitlow’s assessment. Only her embryo can be used for the neural grafts. If we don’t proceed, Catrina dies.”
Catrina. His ex-fiancée. The same woman who’d once nearly pushed me off a rooftop and somehow remained untouchable.
“Sir,” Cole’s voice trembled from the corner of the room. The man had seen shootouts, fires, kidnappings — but this? This shook him. “You’re not actually planning to take her embryo out, are you?”
Nathan didn’t look at him. “Prepare the surgeon. We operate now — while she’s out.”
“She’s not out,” Cole snapped, his face draining of color. “She’s in shock. If you do this, you’ll kill the baby. She might never carry again.”
“She’s already fulfilled her use,” Nathan replied, his tone like ice. “She wanted to prove loyalty to this family — this is loyalty. Catrina matters more. And that child? It isn’t mine.”
Cole’s hand flew for his phone. “Then I’m calling an ambulance—”
The crash echoed before the sentence finished. Nathan had snatched the device and hurled it into the wall, glass scattering across the floor. Without another glance at me — his wife, broken and bleeding — he stepped over my body as if I were nothing more than a stain on the marble.
“Sir, if we don’t get your wife to emergency now, she won’t survive,” Cole’s voice cracked. Fifteen years of service, and for the first time, he sounded afraid.
—
I must have blacked out. When I came to, I was strapped to an operating table on Leclair MedTech’s private floor. IV lines threaded into my arms, machines whining their cold, mechanical songs. I reached down with shaking hands. My belly was flat.
No movement. No life. No heartbeat flutter. Just a silence that screamed.
I tried to cry; my throat felt shredded, like I’d swallowed glass.
Night fell outside the glass. The city carried on. Inside the walls, life carried on for them too — except for the life that had been stolen from me.
Then I heard them.
“Nathan, not here — Amara’s in the next room,” Catrina giggled.
“She’s out,” he replied, satisfied. “Now we can celebrate.”
Their voices were close enough for every word to travel through the supposedly soundproof walls. They hadn’t even closed the door.
“We did it,” Catrina whispered. “She would never have given it up willingly. Now we have the cells. I can finally be cured.”
He kissed her. The bed creaked. The headboard thudded against the wall.
I lay there, numb. One slow tear slid into the pillow. They went on.
“You married her because of the embryo, didn’t you?” Nathan muttered.
Catrina laughed. “Of course. You said it a hundred times. And honestly? Look at her — like a sad librarian from a bad sitcom.”
“She always looks terrible,” Nathan snorted. “Hair pinned up, turtlenecks in summer. She acts smart but can’t even look decent. Pathetic.”
“She’s weak,” Catrina cooed. “I’m sorry I left before, but I’m back.”
Nathan soothed her like a child. “It’s fine. We have what we need. Everything will be fine.”
Catrina hesitated. “But what if she divorces you?”
He laughed, cold. “She won’t. She’s got no one. Her parents are dead. No family. No one to help her.”
“What if she sues? What if she fights you?”
“I’ll divorce her first,” he said. “But not before you’re cured. After that, I won’t need her. Then I’ll give you the wedding you deserve.”
Catrina sighed contentedly. “I knew you loved me.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I let the pillow soak up one slow tear. They thought I was finished. They had no idea who I really was.
---
The next morning I tore out my IV, dressed entirely in black, and walked into the Leclair estate with my heels slapping like gunshots against their polished marble. Mrs. Leclair sat in her grand salon, pearls arranged like armor, pretending not to notice me.
I dropped a folder into her lap with the casual cruelty of someone setting down a verdict.
“Tell Nathan I’m done. I’m filing for divorce,” I said, my voice silk over steel. “He and Catrina can keep their miracle project. I’m taking the entire Winslock tech portfolio — every share. And I want ten million wired to my new company. Now.”
She opened the folder and her fingers shook.
“You transferred the patents to yourself,” she whispered.
“No,” I corrected, lips curling. “You did. Power of attorney. That prenup clause your son ignored? It counts.”
“You’re bluffing,” she hissed.
I didn’t even flinch.
“Test me.”
