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.

Erica POV

The hospital room was a blinding, sterile white.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

My throat felt raw, stripped bare, as if I had swallowed a handful of rusted razor blades.

A nurse bustled in, her eyes fixed on the monitors rather than me. She checked my vitals with efficient, cold hands.

She wouldn't look me in the eye.

"You can leave in an hour," she murmured, adjusting the flow of the IV drip. "Mr. Holden has settled the bill."

Of course he had.

Money was the only bandage that family knew how to apply. A golden plaster over a gaping wound.

I forced myself to sit up. The room tilted dangerously, my head spinning like a top.

Steadying myself, I looked at the bedside table where my few belongings had been stacked.

My phone. My purse.

But the table felt too empty. Something was missing.

The brass urn.

I had carried it with me everywhere since Grandma died. It was heavy, cool to the touch, and the only anchor I had left in this violent storm.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest, overriding the pain.

"Where is it?" I asked. My voice was a broken rasp.

The nurse blinked, feigning confusion. "Where is what?"

"The urn," I managed, louder this time. "The brass jar. It was right here."

She shook her head, taking a step back. "I haven't seen anything like that. Maybe... maybe Mr. Holden took it for safekeeping?"

The lie was written plainly in her evasive gaze.

I didn't wait for permission. I reached down and ripped the IV catheter out of my arm.

Blood welled up instantly, a bright red bead blooming against my pale skin.

I didn't feel it. I felt only the hollow ache where the urn should be.

I grabbed my coat.

I knew exactly who had it. It wasn't Mr. Holden. He wouldn't care enough to take it.

This had Bianca's fingerprints all over it.

I didn't go to the penthouse. I knew where the circus was in town today.

I went to the Plaza Hotel.

The Holdens had rented the entire top floor for the wedding preparations—a staging ground for their perfect little pageant.

I stormed past the doorman, ignoring his protest. I ignored the receptionist calling after me, her voice fading as the elevator doors slid shut.

I took the lift straight to the penthouse suite.

The door was unlocked. Arrogance often left doors open.

I pushed inside.

Bianca was standing by the open balcony doors, framed by the city skyline.

The wind whipped her hair around her perfectly made-up face.

She was holding the urn.

She looked like a petulant child toying with a stolen plaything.

"I was wondering when you would wake up," she said, her voice carrying easily over the wind.

She turned the urn over in her manicured hands, inspecting it.

"It is heavy," she mused. "Heavy with disappointment, I assume."

"Give it to me," I commanded.

I walked toward her, though my legs were trembling with exhaustion.

"Anthony said you are allergic to peanuts," Bianca said, ignoring my approach. "I, however, am allergic to dust. And this..."

She held the vessel out further.

"...this is just a jar of dust."

She dangled it over the balcony railing.

We were twenty stories up.

Below us, the city was a grid of unforgiving concrete and crawling traffic.

"Bianca, no," I pleaded, the fight draining out of me, replaced by pure terror.

I hated begging. It tasted like ash.

But for Grandma, I would beg. I would crawl.

"Please. It is all I have."

Bianca smiled.

It was the same cold, vacant smile she had worn when she locked me in that closet freshman year.

"You have nothing," she said softly. "You are nothing."

She opened her fingers.

The brass urn caught the sunlight for a split second—a final, golden flash.

Then it fell.

I screamed.

I ran to the railing, gripping the cold metal until my knuckles turned white.

I watched it plummet.

It hit the pavement below.

From this height, it didn't even make a sound. No crash. No shatter.

It just vanished into the grey oblivion.

I gripped the railing, staring down.

For a second, I wanted to jump after it. I wanted to scrape her off the sidewalk and hold her one last time.

Then, the grief hardened into something molten.

I turned back to Bianca.

My vision swam with red.

I lunged at her.

I didn't have a plan. I just wanted to hurt her. I wanted to wipe that satisfied smirk off her face forever.

Bianca didn't fight back.

Instead, she threw herself onto the floor with practiced grace.

She ripped the shoulder of her dress with a violent tear.

Then she started screaming.

"Help! Anthony! She's killing me!"

The door to the bedroom burst open.

Anthony and Emmanuel ran in, breathless.

They saw the tableau: Me, standing over Bianca, hands clenched into fists. Bianca, cowering on the floor, her dress torn, tears streaming down her face.

They saw the "fear" in her eyes.

They didn't look at me.

They didn't ask what happened.

They made their choice.