Izzy POV

The phone rang the next morning, shattering the heavy, oppressive silence of the penthouse.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space where Austen should have been. The sheets were cold; he had left before I woke up.

I picked it up. It was Austen.

"Izzy," he said, his voice smooth, charming-the melodic baritone I had foolishly fallen in love with. "I want to apologize for last night. I was out of line."

Relief flooded my chest, warm and blinding, washing away the ache of the previous night.

"It's okay," I said quickly, the words tumbling out in my desperation. "I know you're under a lot of pressure."

"No, it is not okay," he insisted, sounding painfully sincere. "I want to make it up to you. I'm hosting a private celebration tonight. Just close friends and family. At the old meatpacking warehouse in the district. I want to honor you. And the baby."

The meatpacking warehouse was one of the family's oldest holdings, a relic from the days when bodies were disposed of with the same efficiency as the cattle.

It seemed like a grotesque choice for a celebration, but I was so starved for his affection, so desperate to believe in us, that I choked down the rising bile of doubt.

"I will be there," I promised.

I dressed in a silver gown that draped over my baby bump, trying to look like the queen he claimed he wanted me to be. I drove myself, the city lights blurring past like streaks of neon rain as I rehearsed what I would say to him.

I would tell him I loved him. I would tell him we could rule together.

When I arrived, the warehouse was dark, looming against the skyline like a bruised thumb. The massive steel doors were slightly ajar.

I walked in, my heels clicking ominously on the concrete floor.

"Austen?" I called out, my voice swallowed by the shadows.

The smell hit me first. Rust and old ice. Then, a heavy metal clang echoed behind me, final as a gunshot.

I spun around, but it was too late.

A blinding light flickered on overhead. I blinked, disoriented, shielding my eyes. I was not in a ballroom. I was standing inside an industrial freezer, a pristine, glass-walled box erected in the center of the warehouse floor.

I rushed to the glass, pressing my hands against it. The surface bit into my palms, freezing cold.

"Austen!" I screamed.

Beyond the glass, the rest of the warehouse was suddenly illuminated by warm, golden lights. A crowd of people stood there, holding champagne flutes like spectators at a gladiator match.

They were the city's elite-the corrupt politicians and socialites who leeched off the Vancini power. And in the center of them stood Austen.

He was smiling. His arm was wrapped possessively around Deb Noble.

She was not in the hospital. She was wearing a red dress that clung to her body like a second skin, looking healthy, vibrant, and utterly cruel. She raised her glass to me, her lips curling into a triumphant smirk.

Austen walked to a microphone stand set up in front of the glass cage. His voice boomed through the speakers inside the freezer, distorted and god-like.

"Welcome to the party, Izzy," he said. "You said you were hot yesterday. I thought you could use some cooling down."

The crowd laughed. It was a jagged, ugly sound, scraping against my nerves.

"Austen, let me out!" I screamed, pounding on the thick glass until my knuckles bruised. "This is not funny! The baby!"

He stepped closer to the glass, his eyes dead, void of any humanity.

"There is no baby, Izzy. Not for me. Just a ticket to the trust fund. And now that your father is dead, I am the one punching the ticket."

My blood ran cold, colder than the sub-zero air biting at my skin.

I fumbled for my phone in my clutch. My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped it. I dialed the one number I knew by heart. The number that was supposed to be disconnected.

Austen saw the phone. He laughed, a sound of pure arrogance.

"Who are you calling? Daddy? He is worm food, Izzy."

The line clicked.

"Isolde."

My father's voice was rough, but unmistakably alive.

"Daddy," I sobbed, the word tearing from my throat. "He locked me in the freezer. Austen. He is taking everything."

"I know," Ezra Vancini said. His voice was calm, terrifyingly so-the calm before a massacre. "Keep the line open. Do not let them see you are talking to me. I am coming."

"He is not dead," I whispered, looking up at Austen, my eyes locking onto his.

Austen tapped the glass with his signet ring.

"You look like a trapped rat, darling. It suits you."

Deb leaned into the microphone, her voice dripping with poison.

"You know, Austen, she looks a little flushed. Maybe we should lower the temperature."

Austen nodded to a man standing by a control panel.

"Let's liven up the party," he said.

Izzy POV

The temperature didn't just drop; it plunged.

I could feel it instantly, a biting chill that clamped its jaws around my exposed skin. I wrapped my arms around my belly, trying to shield my unborn son from the cold, but the dress offered no sanctuary.

Austen signaled to two men standing in the shadows. They were Enforcers, hulking figures with dead eyes who had once sworn loyalty to my father but were now following the scent of new money. They hauled open the heavy door of the freezer and stepped inside.

"Please," I begged, backing away until my spine hit the freezing glass. "Do not do this."

Austen's voice crackled over the intercom, distorted by static. "She still thinks she is royalty. Show her she is nothing."

The men lunged at me. Their hands were rough, bruising my arms as they seized control. One of them grabbed the neckline of my silver gown and yanked. The fabric gave way with a sickening rip.

They stripped the dress from my body in violent tears, leaving me in nothing but my lingerie.

I screamed, trying to cover myself, trying to cover the baby. The humiliation burned hotter than the cold. I was the Vancini Princess, and now I was on display like a piece of meat in a butcher shop.

Outside, the crowd cheered. I saw a man I had known since childhood, a banker, raise his glass and laugh as if this were sport.

"Bring the ice," Austen commanded.

A soldier entered with a large plastic bucket. He didn't hesitate. He upended it onto the metal floor at my feet. Ice cubes and freezing water splashed over my legs.

"Kneel," one of the Enforcers barked.

I shook my head. "No. Please."

He kicked the back of my knees. My legs buckled, and I fell hard onto the ice. The cold seared my skin like fire. I gasped, the air driven from my lungs. The sharp edges of the ice dug into my knees, cutting the skin.

"Austen!" I screamed his name, looking through the glass. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably. "Think about your son!"

For a second, just a fraction of a second, I saw his mask slip. He looked at my belly, round and vulnerable, and his hand twitched at his side.

Deb saw it too. She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of me. She stumbled slightly, grabbing his arm.

"Ow!" she cried out.

Austen turned to her, his concern immediate and genuine. "What is it?"

Deb held up her hand. A small trickle of blood ran down her palm. She had a hairpin clutched in her fingers, hidden from his view. She had stabbed herself.

She looked at me through the glass, her eyes filled with hate. "She threw that ice at me yesterday," she lied, her voice trembling with practiced fear. "When she attacked me in the office. I think I have internal bleeding, Austen. The stress... she is trying to kill us."

It was a lie so absurd, so transparent, but Austen swallowed it whole because he wanted to. He needed a reason to be the monster.

"You witch," he snarled at me, his face twisting into pure rage. "You are poison, Isolde. Everything you touch dies."

He turned to the soldier inside the freezer.

"Do not just put it on the floor," he ordered. "Put it on her. Cool her off."

A woman in the crowd, a socialite wearing pearls, stepped forward. "Austen, she is pregnant. That could kill the child."

Deb turned to the woman. "Oh, stop it. She is fine. She is just being dramatic. Look at her."

Austen ignored the woman. He looked at me, his eyes empty of anything human.

"Do it," he said.

Izzy POV

The guard hoisted a fresh bucket of ice water. It was heavy, the slush sloshing violently over the rusted rim.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I curled my body around my stomach, a futile shield of flesh and bone against the inevitable.

"No," I whispered, the word barely a breath.

The water hit me.

It was a shock so profound my heart stuttered in my chest. It wasn't just cold; it was a physical assault, a sledgehammer of frost. The freezing torrent drenched my hair, my face, my chest. It cascaded down my back and pooled around my kneeling legs, stealing the heat from my skin in an instant.

My body seized. Every muscle contracted in a violent, uncontrollable spasm.

I gasped for air, but my lungs were frozen solid. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

Before I could recover, another bucket hit me from the other side.

I collapsed onto the ice, my cheek pressing against the frozen slush. I was shaking so hard my teeth clacked together, the sound echoing in my skull, threatening to shatter my jaw.

Then, the pain started.

It wasn't the cold. It was something else entirely-a deep, twisting cramp in my lower abdomen. It felt like a fist clenching around my uterus, squeezing the life out of me with a hot, iron grip.

I groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure agony that scraped my throat. I tried to sit up, to check, but another wave of pain doubled me over, forcing my forehead to the floor.

I felt a sudden, sickening warmth between my legs. It was a stark, terrifying contrast to the freezing water.

I looked down.

Bright red blood was spreading across the white ice. It swirled with the water, creating a grotesque pink slush beneath me, a blooming flower of death.

The warehouse went silent. The laughter died in their throats. The socialite in the corner covered her mouth with a manicured hand, her pearls trembling.

I looked up at the glass partition. My vision was blurring, black spots dancing at the edges of my sight.

The baby, I mouthed.

Austen stared at the blood. His face went pale, the color draining away as if he were the one bleeding. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a sudden, dawning horror. He took a step toward the glass, his hand reaching out involuntarily, his palm pressing against the pane.

This wasn't part of his plan. He wanted the money. He wanted the power. I didn't think he wanted a dead heir.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, his eyes locked on the crimson pool.

Then, the man in the suit-his legal counsel-checked his own phone.

"Mr. Nolan," the lawyer called out, his voice sharp, breaking the heavy silence. "The transfer is complete. Blackwell Innovations is officially Nolan Enterprises. The assets are yours."

The greed snapped Austen back. He blinked, tearing his gaze from the blood to look at the lawyer.

Deb saw him wavering. She grabbed his face, her nails digging into his skin, forcing him to look at her.

"She is faking it, Austen," she hissed, her voice venomous. "Look at her. It is a trick. She cut herself to make you feel guilty. She wants to ruin your victory."

Austen looked at me, shivering in a pool of my own blood. He looked at the red slush again. He wanted to believe Deb. It was easier to believe the lie than to accept the monster he had become.

"She is lying," he muttered, his voice shaking, trying to convince himself.

Then, louder, fueled by a desperate need to be right: "Drop the temperature," he yelled at the technician. "Drop it to zero. Let's see how long she can act."

A violent contraction ripped through me, tearing a scream from my lips. I knew, with a mother's instinct, that it was over. The life inside me was fading, slipping away into the cold.

"You killed him!" I screamed. It was a raw, tearing sound that scraped my throat raw. "You killed our son!"

Darkness rushed in from the edges of my vision, a welcoming tide. The cold wasn't cold anymore. It was numb. It was peaceful.

I let it take me.