Addison POV

The ballroom was a suffocating ocean of black tuxedos and crimson gowns.

The air reeked of old money, expensive cologne, and the metallic tang of blood.

I stood invisible near the arched entrance, clutching Evelin’s emergency kit to my chest like a lifeline.

In the center of the room, Bernard held court.

He looked every inch the king of this underworld—tall, imposing, and utterly untouchable.

Evelin hung on his arm, glowing with the radiance of a woman who knows she has won.

Then, she saw me.

The moment her eyes found mine, her porcelain smile curdled into a sneer.

She leaned in and whispered something to Bernard.

He nodded once, sharp and precise.

He didn’t look at me.

Evelin detached herself from him and glided over to where I stood.

The music cut out.

A hush fell over the crowd as heads turned, sensing the spectacle.

"You," she said, her voice dripping with disdain.

I straightened my spine, refusing to cower.

"Yes, Miss Bennett?"

Her hand struck my face.

The sharp *crack* ricocheted through the silent room.

My cheek exploded with heat.

My head snapped to the side from the force of the blow.

"You are staring at my fiancé," she hissed, leaning close so only I could smell the champagne on her breath. "You dirty little whore."

I touched my stinging cheek, my fingers coming away trembling.

I looked at Bernard.

He was watching.

His face was hewn from stone, unreadable and cold.

He did nothing.

"My shoe is dirty," Evelin announced, her voice carrying to the onlookers.

She pointed a manicured finger at her stiletto.

"Clean it."

I stared at her, the request hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.

"No," I said.

Bernard snapped his fingers.

Two guards materialized from the shadows.

They seized my shoulders and forced me down.

My knees hit the marble floor with a bone-jarring thud.

"Clean it," Bernard ordered.

His voice was a low rumble—dangerous and devoid of mercy.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked him, searching his eyes for the man I thought I knew.

"Because you need to learn your place," he said.

Evelin laughed, a high, cruel sound.

She kicked me in the chest.

I toppled backward, gasping for air.

She reached into her purse and pulled out something small and wooden.

It was the music box.

My father's music box.

"Bernard gave it to me," she said, tossing it lightly in her hand. "He said it was trash."

She walked over to an exotic display of cacti near the wall—a centerpiece of long, serrated needles.

She hurled the box into the center of the thorns.

"Oops," she deadpanned.

"Five thousand dollars to anyone who smashes it!" she yelled to the crowd.

The mobsters laughed, the sound ugly and raucous.

One of them stepped forward, lifting a heavy, polished boot.

"No!" I screamed.

I scrambled across the floor.

I didn't care about the humiliation.

I didn't care about the guards.

I lunged at the display.

I plunged my bare hands into the cactus.

The thorns were long.

Razor-sharp.

They tore into my flesh, piercing deep into my palms.

I grabbed the box.

Blood ran down my wrists, staining the pristine white floor crimson.

I curled my body around the small wooden box, shielding it with my own skin.

The mobster didn't stop.

He kicked me in the ribs.

I gasped, the air leaving my lungs in a pained wheeze.

The box flew out of my blood-slicked hands.

It hit the marble floor.

It shattered.

The tiny brass gears spilled out like guts.

The melody died before it could even begin.

I stared at the broken pieces, my heart fracturing along with the wood.

The silence in the room was deafening.

I looked up at Bernard.

He was standing over me.

He looked at my bleeding, mangled hands.

He looked at the ruins of the wood.

For a split second, the mask slipped. He looked like he was going to be sick.

But then he stepped back, the ice returning to his eyes.

He took Evelin's hand.

"Let's go," he said.

I lay on the floor among the thorns and the wreckage of my father's memory.

I watched Bernard's back as he walked away.

"I hope you die," I whispered into the cold stone.

"I hope you die screaming."

Addison POV

The harsh fluorescence of the hospital lights was blinding, searing against my retinas.

I tried to shield my face, but my hands were heavy, wrapped in thick layers of gauze.

Useless.

The door creaked open, and a nurse stepped in.

She hesitated at the threshold, her fingers nervous against her clipboard.

"Mrs... Miss Addison?" she asked.

"Addison," I rasped. "Just Addison."

"The doctor stitched your hands," she said, her voice soft. "You will have scars. But no nerve damage."

"Okay," I said, staring at the ceiling. "Can I go?"

"There is something else," she said.

She looked down at her clipboard, avoiding my eyes.

"We ran some blood tests. Routine."

She paused, and the silence stretched too thin.

"You are pregnant, Addison. About six weeks."

The room seemed to spin.

Pregnant.

Six weeks ago.

The timeline crashed into me. The night before Bernard left the cabin.

The night he swore he loved me.

A baby.

His baby.

Panic clawed at my throat, choking me.

I couldn't have a baby.

Not his.

Not in this world.

He would take it. He would claim it as property.

He would raise it to be a killer like him.

Or worse, Evelin would find out. And she would kill it.

"Who is the father?" the nurse asked gently.

"He is dead," I lied, the words tasting like ash.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

Bernard stormed in.

A storm cloud of fury clung to him, darkening the room.

He slammed the door shut behind him with a force that rattled the frame.

The nurse stifled a gasp, sidestepped him, and scrambled out of the room.

Bernard marched to the bed.

He loomed over me, sucking the oxygen out of the air.

"Is it true?" he demanded.

I looked at him.

I looked at the man who had stood by and let his fiancée destroy the only thing I ever loved.

"Are you pregnant?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yes," I said.

His eyes dropped to my stomach.

His hand twitched at his side.

"Is it mine?" he asked.

The air in the room grew thin.

Time seemed to freeze.

This was the moment.

If I said yes, I was trapped forever.

If I said yes, my child was doomed.

"No," I said.

Bernard froze.

"What?" he whispered.

"It's not yours," I said. My voice was steady. Dead.

"You lied, Bernard. You said you were drugged. You said it meant nothing. Well, I wasn't drugged. And I wasn't faithful."

His face went pale.

Then red.

He grabbed the bed rail.

The metal groaned under his crushing grip.

"You cheated on me?" he snarled. "While I was recovering?"

"You weren't my husband," I said cold. "You were a patient. And Ben is dead. Remember?"

He stared at me.

He searched my face, desperate to find a crack in my mask.

He was searching for a lie.

But I had no love left in my eyes to give me away.

Slowly, he let go of the rail.

He reached into his jacket pocket.

He pulled out a stack of papers.

"Sign this," he said.

"What is it?"

"NDA," he said. "And a settlement. Evelin feels... generous."

I looked at the papers.

It was blood money.

I took the pen with my bandaged hand.

It hurt.

Sharp pain shot up my arm, vibrating in my bones.

But the hollow ache in my chest was far worse.

I signed my name.

I handed the papers back.

"Take it," I said.

Bernard looked at the signature.

He looked at me.

"If I see you again, Addison," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "I will not be this kind."

I looked him dead in the eye.

"You can't hurt me, Bernard," I said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because I don't feel anything anymore," I said.

He flinched.

It was small.

But it was there.

He turned and walked out.

Taking all the air in the room with him.

Once the silence returned, I placed my bandaged hand gently on my stomach.

"I am sorry," I whispered to the tiny life inside me.

"I am so sorry."

"But I will not let him have you."

Addison POV

The ink on the NDA was barely dry when the door to my hospital room swung open again.

It wasn’t a nurse; it was Evelin.

She certainly didn’t look like a woman who had just destroyed a family heirloom. She looked radiant.

She floated to Bernard’s side, her hand resting protectively over her flat stomach.

“We did it, Bernard,” she squealed, her voice high and piercing. “The test came back an hour ago.”

Bernard froze.

He looked at her hand, and then he looked up at her face.

Slowly, a smile broke across his lips.

It wasn’t the guarded, cold smirk he gave the world. It was real. It was the kind of smile Ben used to give me when he managed to light the fire on a wet night—rare, unguarded, and warm.

He lifted her up, spinning her around.

“I’m going to be a father,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

I lay frozen in the hospital bed, my womb aching with the secret I had just denied. He was celebrating a life with her while I was mourning one with him.

The monitor beside me began to beep faster, betraying my heart.

“Get out,” I whispered.

They didn’t hear me.

“Get out!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat.

Bernard set Evelin down instantly.

He looked at me, and the joy evaporated from his face, replaced by that familiar, icy indifference.

“We are leaving,” he said coldly. “Send the bill to my office.”

They walked out. He held the door for her, and he didn’t look back.

I waited until the sound of their footsteps faded into silence.

Then, I reached over and yanked the IV out of my arm.

Blood welled up and dripped onto the stark white sheets, but I didn’t care.

I walked out of the hospital an hour later, bypassing the front desk.

I went straight to a women’s clinic on 4th Street and made the appointment for two days later.

I couldn’t bring a child into a world where its father looked at me like I was trash.

I went home.

My apartment felt like a museum of a dead man.

I took the puzzle we had started—a landscape of the Alps—off the table and swept the pieces into a garbage bag. I took the flannel shirts he left behind and threw them in after it.

I scrubbed the apartment until my hands were raw, desperate to wash away the lingering scent of pine and woodsmoke.

My phone rang.

It was Dr. Miles.

“Addison,” he said, his voice shaking.

“I quit,” I said flatly.

“You can’t,” he replied, panic rising in his tone. “Evelin Bennett called. She is demanding you continue her therapy. She says she is stressed about the pregnancy.”

“Tell her to find someone else.”

“I can’t, Addison. Bernard Logan called. He said if you don’t show up, he pulls the funding for the entire clinic. We will close. Everyone will lose their jobs.”

I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white.

He was doing this on purpose. He wanted to break me.

I hung up.

I walked to the window and looked down.

A black car was already waiting at the curb.

The driver looked up. It was one of his soldiers. He tapped his wrist, a silent command.

I grabbed my coat and walked downstairs.

I got into the car.

I wasn’t a therapist anymore.

I was a prisoner of war.