Erica POV

I carried my grandmother's ashes in a simple brass urn. Though it was small, it felt heavier than the weight of the entire world.

I took the elevator up to the penthouse. This place had been my home for three years.

Or so I thought.

Now I knew it was just a cage gilded in gold.

I keyed in the code, and the door slid open.

Immediately, I heard laughter.

Bianca was there. She was wearing one of my silk robes, lounging on the sofa while drinking wine.

Anthony was sitting at the desk, counting money. He didn't even look up as I walked in.

"You are back," he said, his voice flat. "Did the old hag die?"

I gripped the urn tighter, my knuckles turning white.

"Don't talk about her," I said.

Bianca sat up, her movements languid.

"Is that her?" She pointed at the urn with her wine glass, sloshing the red liquid dangerously close to the rim. "She fits in a very small jar."

She giggled.

"Get out of my robe," I said.

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew it was a mistake. I had no power here.

Bianca's eyes narrowed.

"Your robe?" She stood up. "Everything here is Anthony's. And Anthony belongs to me. So this is my robe."

She walked over to me with a predator's grace.

She reached out and flicked the urn.

It made a hollow, disrespectful sound.

"Dust," she said. "Just like you."

I shoved her.

It wasn't a conscious decision; it was pure instinct.

The wine splashed onto the white carpet, staining it like fresh blood.

Bianca shrieked.

"Anthony!" she screamed. "She hit me!"

Anthony was across the room in a second.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't even look at the wine.

He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall.

My head cracked against the plaster, and stars exploded in my vision.

"Do not touch her," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "She is a Made daughter. You are nothing."

"She disrespected my grandmother," I choked out.

"I do not care," Anthony said.

He dragged me down the hall.

He knew my fears. I had told him once, in a moment of weakness.

I told him about the hazing in college. How Bianca's goons had locked me in a janitor's closet for two days. How the darkness made me feel like I was suffocating.

He dragged me to the panic room.

It was a steel box reinforced with concrete. Soundproof. Pitch black.

"You need a timeout," Anthony said, coldly. "You need to learn your place before the wedding."

"No," I begged, digging my heels into the floor. "Anthony, please. Not the dark."

He didn't hesitate.

He shoved me inside and I fell onto the cold metal floor.

I scrambled for the door, but it was too late.

The heavy steel slammed shut, and the lock clicked.

The darkness was absolute.

It pressed against my eyes. It filled my lungs.

I screamed.

I banged on the door until my fists bled, but no one came.

Eventually, I curled into a ball in the corner, hugging the urn. It was the only thing I had.

I sat there for hours. Maybe days. I lost track of time.

Panic came in waves. It felt like drowning.

But then, as exhaustion set in, the panic receded.

And something else took its place.

Clarity.

I sat in the dark and I thought about every lie. I thought about every touch.

I realized he wasn't just cruel. He was weak.

He needed to break me to feel strong. A truly powerful man wouldn't need to torture his wife to prove his dominance.

I stopped crying. I stopped banging on the door.

I sat in silence, letting the darkness become a shield rather than a weapon.

I waited.

When I finally heard the lock turn, I didn't scramble to get out.

I stayed seated.

The door opened, and light flooded in. It hurt my eyes.

Emmanuel stood there.

He looked down at me.

Based on his hesitant posture, I knew he expected to see a broken girl. He expected tears.

I looked up at him.

My face was dry. My expression was blank.

"Are we done?" I asked.

He blinked, clearly unsettled.

"Get up," he muttered. "We have things to do."

I stood up and walked past him.

I didn't look back at the dark.

I carried the darkness with me now.

Erica POV

"You smell like fear," Emmanuel remarked.

He was behind the wheel, navigating the traffic with an ease that belied the tension in the car.

I remained silent, staring out the window as the city blurred into streaks of grey and steel.

"Anthony went too far," he added, his voice dropping to a register that sounded almost gentle.

But I knew better. It was a trick.

"Did he?" I asked, my gaze still fixed on the passing buildings. "Or did he do exactly what you both wanted?"

Emmanuel’s grip tightened on the leather steering wheel.

"We are going to the bridal shop," he announced, ignoring my question. "Bianca needs to pick up her dress."

"And I am going why?"

"Because she wants you there," he replied flatly. "She wants you to carry her train."

Of course she did.

We arrived at the boutique, a space so white and pristine it felt clinical.

Bianca stood on a podium in the center of the room, draped in a gown that cost more than my entire existence.

It was a masterpiece of lace and crystals.

She looked beautiful.

And utterly evil.

"There she is," Bianca sneered, catching my reflection in the mirror. "The handmaid."

She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

"Fix the hem," she ordered.

I knelt. I adjusted the delicate fabric, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life.

The shop assistants watched me with undisguised pity. They knew. Everyone knew but me.

Emmanuel watched from the corner, his heavy-lidded eyes tracking my every move.

When the fitting was done, he walked over, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

"Here," he said, shoving it into my hand.

I opened it to reveal diamond earrings—large, flawless, and cold.

"A consolation prize?" I asked, my voice dry.

"A down payment," he whispered. "For later."

He leaned in, invading my personal space.

"Anthony marries her," he murmured against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "But I keep you. That is the arrangement. You stay in the penthouse. You stay in my bed."

His breath washed over me, a cloying mixture of mint and tobacco.

My stomach lurched violently.

It wasn't just disgust.

It was the baby.

Nausea rolled over me like a tidal wave. I gagged, unable to suppress the bile rising in my throat.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and bolted for the bathroom.

I barely made it to the toilet before I emptied my stomach, my body shaking with the force of it.

After flushing and splashing cold water on my face, I tried to compose myself.

But when I opened the door, Emmanuel was there.

He blocked the exit, staring at me with narrowed, calculating eyes.

"You are not sick," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"I have an ulcer," I lied, desperation clawing at my throat. "From the stress."

He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to my stomach.

It was still flat.

But he was the Enforcer. He noticed details others missed.

He noticed that I hadn't touched wine in weeks. He noticed the pallor of morning sickness.

"You are pregnant," he said.

The air was sucked out of the room.

"No," I breathed.

"Don't lie to me," he growled, grabbing my arm.

"Is it mine?"

He knew about the switch. He knew the timeline. It had to be his.

"There is no baby," I insisted, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Let me go."

He released me, but the look on his face wasn't relief. It was terror.

Not for me. For himself.

"If Anthony finds out," he whispered, the realization dawning on him, "he will kill it. A bastard child threatens the line."

"Then don't tell him," I pleaded.

He looked at me, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, before it was extinguished by self-preservation.

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Brother," he said into the receiver. "We have a problem."

I closed my eyes as my heart shattered.

He didn't hesitate.

He had sold his own child to protect his position.

I knew then that there was no saving this situation.

There was only survival.

Erica POV

The dinner was supposed to be a peace treaty.

The Holdens and the Houses were gathered at one long table, an uneasy truce displayed in silver and linen.

I was seated at the far end—exiled from the conversation, and far removed from the power.

I had spent the afternoon at a clinic.

I took a pill.

It was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I couldn't bring a child into this world.

Not this world.

I was bleeding.

Physically and emotionally, I was draining away. Yet, I sat straight, a statue of composure.

I wore the diamond earrings Emmanuel gave me. They felt heavy on my ears, like stones.

Waiters brought out the food.

Thai curry.

It smelled strong, a cloying mix of spices and coconut milk.

I was allergic to peanuts.

Deadly allergic.

And Anthony knew this.

He carried an EpiPen in his jacket pocket specifically for me. In the past, he used to obsessively check ingredients at every restaurant we visited.

My mind hazy with exhaustion, I looked down at my bowl.

It looked safe enough.

I took a bite.

The reaction was instant.

My throat slammed shut. My lips swelled, stinging with heat.

I couldn't breathe.

Panic seized me. I clawed at my neck, desperate for air.

I knocked my water glass over, and it shattered against the table, the sound cutting through the dinner chatter.

Everyone looked at me.

"Help," I wheezed, the sound barely escaping my constricted windpipe.

I locked eyes with Anthony.

He was staring right at me.

His face was blank, devoid of recognition or alarm.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket.

He pulled out the EpiPen.

Hope flared in my chest, bright and desperate.

He stood up.

But he didn't walk to me.

He walked to Bianca.

Bianca let out a dramatic, theatrical gasp.

"Oh no," she cried, bringing a hand to her forehead. "I feel faint! The fumes!"

She slumped in her chair.

She was faking. It was painfully, insultingly obvious.

Anthony uncapped the EpiPen.

"Stay with me, my love," he said loudly, his voice thick with performative concern.

He jammed the needle into Bianca's thigh.

She yelped in genuine surprise.

He wasted the medicine on her.

He was wasting my life on her.

I fell to the floor.

Black spots danced in my vision, obscuring the cruel tableau above me.

I gasped for air that wouldn't come, my chest heaving uselessly.

Emmanuel was watching.

He was calmly drinking his wine, looking down at me dying on the carpet as if I were a stain.

"She should have checked the menu," he said dismissively. "Careless nurse."

The room started to spin.

The darkness was coming back.

But this time, it wasn't a closet.

It was death.

Through the haze, I saw the shoes of the waiters rushing over.

Someone called 911.

Not Anthony.

Not Emmanuel.

A waiter. A stranger.

As my eyes closed, the last thing I saw was Anthony kissing Bianca's forehead.

He was comforting her.

While I suffocated.

I didn't die.

The paramedics arrived in a blur of motion and noise.

They gave me a shot.

My lungs opened.

I sucked in air, and it burned like fire.

They loaded me onto a stretcher.

I looked back at the table.

They were still eating.

They didn't stop dinner.

I closed my eyes.

The sadness was gone.

The fear was gone.

There was only the cold.

I touched my empty stomach.

I touched my swollen throat.

They wanted me dead.

They tried to kill me.

Okay.

I would die.

Erica the nurse would die.

And something else would rise from the ashes.

I thought of the soldier's card in my purse.

*When you are ready to burn it down.*

I was ready.

I was the match.