I clutched the cold wall just to keep myself from collapsing.
So that “little princess” post wasn’t love—it was my death sentence.
So all his tenderness and care had been nothing but a façade.
So he had already been with Olivia—and she was carrying his child.
And I, along with the daughter in my womb, was nothing more than an obstacle to their happiness.
An obstacle to be “accidentally” erased at any moment.
I didn’t storm out, didn’t scream, didn’t let those two see my despair.
Instead, I quietly turned, step by step, into the empty stairwell.
My trembling fingers found a number buried in my contacts for three long years.
The call was quickly answered. A low, magnetic male voice came through.
“Hello.”
Just one word, yet it carried such authority and pressure that it caught me like a net before I could fall apart.
“Mr. Blake, this is Rachel Carter.”
“Three years ago, you said if I gave the word, you could destroy the Scott family.”
“Does that still hold?”
The other end was silent for several seconds—long enough for me to think he might refuse.
“It holds.” Ethan Blake’s voice was steady, filled with a quiet reassurance.
“I’ll give you an address. Meet me tomorrow.”
When the call ended, I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I sat on the cold floor, my chest crushed by a weight so heavy I could barely breathe.
Only then did the full terror set in.
Had I not stumbled upon their conversation, soon my daughter and I would have vanished in a meticulously staged “accident.”
Daniel, my husband, would be holding Olivia and their son, moving into a life of happiness bought with my life.
I pulled out my phone and stared at his social media post—his profile picture still our wedding photo.
The blessings beneath it had already piled into the hundreds, each one a stinging slap across my face.
I stared at the words “My little princess, Daddy loves you!” and felt only bitter irony.
My “little princess,” in his plan, was nothing but a “burden.”
A child with a title but no worth, someone disposable at any moment.
I didn’t delete it, didn’t reply. I simply shoved the cold phone back into my pocket, my heart as frozen as the screen.
Standing up, I smoothed my clothes, drew a deep breath, and forced my storm of emotions back beneath the surface.
When I returned home, Daniel wasn’t back yet. The house was empty, filled only with the scent of what had once been “home.”
As usual, I changed my shoes, washed my hands, and stepped into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
The blade struck the cutting board with a dull, steady rhythm—
over and over, echoing my fractured heart.
I remembered our early days of marriage, when I couldn’t cook and ruined the kitchen on my first attempt.
Daniel had come up behind me, wrapping me in his arms, guiding my hands as he taught me how to chop.
His chin rested on my shoulder, warm breath brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
“Rachel, I’ll cook from now on. I don’t want my princess harmed by smoke and grease.”
Words that once moved me to tears now filled me with nothing but disgust.
Each cut of the knife severed another thread of what had once been love.
The lock clicked. Daniel returned, carrying a delicate cake box, his familiar warm smile plastered on his face.
