I woke up to the sound of screaming.

"You're absolutely useless! A flat-out parasite! You can't even pay your damn rent, so why should I keep you under my roof?"

I was disoriented.

My head felt like it had been cracked open, and my vision was blurry.

As I blinked my eyes open, the first thing I saw wasn't a ceiling, but the gray, overcast sky.

I wasn't in a bed. I was lying on the cold, cracked pavement of the alleyway outside my apartment building.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked around. My things-my cheap belongings-were scattered everywhere.

People were standing around, stopping on their way to work or market.

They weren't helping. They were laughing. They were pointing at me like I was a piece of street theater.

"W-What are you doing?!" I shrieked. I scrambled to my feet, but my knees were weak, and I nearly fell back down.

"Stop it! What is going on?"

I didn't remember how I got here. How did I end up back at the apartment?

My landlord, Marta, stood at the top of the stairs, her face purple with rage.

She held my last remaining bag and threw it with all her might. It hit the ground near my feet, the contents spilling out into the mud.

"What am I doing? I'm throwing out the trash!" she yelled, pointing a finger at me.

"Get out of here! Don't you ever show your face in this building again. You haven't paid a cent in two months. I let you stay here out of pity, but I'm done. Enough is enough!"

"P-Please!" I begged, "You can't do this! I have nowhere to go. I don't have any money!"

"I don't give a damn!" she shouted back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, her eyes flashing with anger. "I've had enough of this nonsense!"

"Please... you have to listen. I'm pregnant!"

"That's your problem to figure out. Go sleep on the sidewalk for all I care. Maybe one of your 'customers' will give you a box to live in!"

She turned her back on me and slammed the door. I stood there, frozen.

My heart was breaking, but I forced myself to stood up straight.

I remembered the man from last night-the one who carried me.

Who was he?

Did he bring me here?

Or did he just drop me off like a package he didn't want to deal with?

My memory was a dark, foggy hole, and the disorientation made me feel like I was drowning.

I managed to shove most of my things into the suitcase. I stood up, dragging the heavy, broken bag behind me. I didn't know where I was going.

I had no friends, no family...nothing.

But as I reached the end of the alley, a black car with tinted windows pulled up sharply, screeching to a halt right in front of me.

I tried to ignore the car.

I was too tired, too broken, and too filthy to care about another luxury vehicle parked in a place it didn't belong.

I tightened my grip on the handle of my broken suitcase and tried to limp past, but the rear door swung open with a smooth, expensive click, blocking my path.

A man stepped out, and for a terrifying heartbeat, my breath hitched in my throat.

He was tall, built with the same broad shoulders and commanding presence that David had.

From a distance, in the glare of the morning sun, I almost called out his name.

But then the stranger reached up and slid his dark sunglasses off, and the illusion shattered.

He was handsome-dangerously so-but in a way that was sharper, more predatory than David.

His eyes were a piercing, cold gray, and they scanned me from my tangled hair down to my scraped, muddy knees.

"Can you fucking excuse me?" I snapped, "You're in the way."

I tried to side-step him, dragging my heavy bag through the dirt, but he let out a low, sexy chuckle that grated on my nerves.

"I believe you owe me a thank you, Sandra," he said.

I stopped in my tracks.

"W-What? How did you know my name?"

"I saved you last night," he said, tilting his head.

"You were face-down in the gutter outside a mansion that didn't want you. If I hadn't picked you up, someone would have finished what he started."

The memories of the night came rushing back.

I looked down.

"How do you know about David?"

He leaned against the frame of the car, crossing his arms.

"After finding out you were the 'mistress'..."

He used his fingers to make air quotes around the word.

"...and hearing all about how you were 'seducing' poor, innocent David, I figured you were someone worth knowing. Especially since he wants to dispose of you so badly to keep his perfect little life from falling apart."

He was probably at the party, that's why he knew.

"You brought me back here."

"Yes," he said with a smirk.

"I didn't know which room was yours, so I left you near the entrance. I was supposed to take you to my home, but then again, I knew that would look weird. It seems things turned into a bit of a ruckus this morning, though. Seeing your life thrown out onto the pavement... it's a bit pathetic, don't you think? I believe you actually need some help."

The pity in his voice sparked a flare of my old pride.

"I don't need help from someone like you. I'll be better off alone," I spat.

"So back off. I don't know how you found out where I live, but I don't care. I'm done with him. I'm done with all of it."

I turned my back on him, determined to walk away even if it meant sleeping under a bridge. But before I could take two steps, his hand shot out and gripped my wrist.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity through my body.

It wasn't the creepy, skin-crawling feeling I got from the men at the club.

It was something else-a sudden, paralyzing chill that made every hair on my arms stand up.

I was unable to pull away, trapped by the intensity of his grip.

"I am the only one who can help you now, Sandra, and bring about my brother's downfall," his voice dropping to a serious, dark tone.

His brother?

I froze, heart skipping a beat. I hadn't known he had a brother.

I slowly turned to face him, my heart hammering.

"How? Why do you care about David's problems?"

His eyes darkened, a shadow of something unreadable flickering across his face.

Everything suddenly made a little more sense, and yet, a thousand questions raced through my mind, leaving me both stunned and uneasy.

"Or, more accurately, my half-brother. And we are not on good terms. He has something that rightfully belongs to me. I think you're the key to helping me take it back."

"No," I said, shaking my head and trying to wrench my arm free.

"I'm done. I don't want any more of David. He threw me away like trash. I won't be a pawn in your family drama."

"You don't understand, Sandra," he said, stepping closer until I could smell the expensive tobacco and mint on his breath.

"Your life is in danger. You think you're safe just because you're away from the mansion? You saw Cyndrel yesterday. She looks like a saint, doesn't she? Those soft smiles, that gentle voice?"

He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"Underneath that fake exterior, she is ruthless. She's a predator who protects what's hers with blood."

"She wants you dead, Sandra. Not just gone, but erased. She wants David all to herself, and she won't let a 'mistress' with a pregnant belly stand in the way of her perfect family. Whether you like it or not, I'm the only wall between you and whatever she has planned for you."

I looked at him, my eyes narrowing with skepticism.

I had spent my entire life being lied to, and David had just finished delivering the ultimate betrayal.

Why should I believe that his brother was any different?

"I don't know you," I said, "And quite frankly, I don't trust anyone with the last name Kingsley."

"Especially not now that you're carrying a Kingsley heir," he said, his eyes dropping to my stomach.

I winced, closing my eyes tight as the reality of the pregnancy hit me, "I'll just get rid of it," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

"This child... it's just a reminder of everything I've lost."

I looked him dead in the eye, trying to summon whatever scrap of dignity I had left.

"Thank you for the offer. But if you're just going to use me as a weapon against your brother, just like David used me for his own fun, it's a no. I'm not a tool."

I reached out and forcefully peeled his hand off my wrist.

He didn't fight me, but the look on his face told me he thought I was making a massive mistake.

I didn't look back.

I grabbed the handle of my broken suitcase and began to walk away.

The truth was, I had nowhere to go. I walked for what felt like hours, my feet blistering, until I found a waiting shed near a main road.

It was the only shelter I could find. I sat on the hard wooden bench, watching the sun begin to dip below the horizon.

I was practically a beggar now. I sat there with my hands tucked into my lap, watching people pass by.

They looked at me with varying degrees of disgust-mothers pulling their children away, men sneering at my torn dress and messy hair.

I felt invisible and hated all at once. I was starving, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for a single cent.

Suddenly, a black SUV screeched to a halt right in front of the shed.

The tires kicked up a cloud of dust that made me cough. Before I could even stand up, three men piled out of the vehicle. They were built like brick walls, wearing nondescript dark clothing and surgical masks that hid their faces.

They lunged for me.

"Wait! What are you doing? Where are you taking me?!" I screamed, thrashing as two of them grabbed my arms, lifting me clean off the bench.

The sidewalk was deserted now. The afternoon commute had ended, and the streetlights hadn't quite flickered on yet. The world was draped in a dim, eerie gray.

"Stop! Please!"

They ignored my pleas, dragging me toward the open door of the SUV.

I kicked and bit. They were going to shove me inside, and I knew with a terrifying certainty that if I got into that car, I was never coming out alive.

"Let go of her!" a voice roared, cutting through the sound of my struggling.

I looked up, tears blurring my vision.

It was him.

The man from earlier.

David's brother.

He was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, looking remarkably calm for a man facing three hired thugs.

"You've got nothing to do with this," one of the men growled, stepping toward him.

"Keep walking if you want to keep your teeth."

He didn't flinch. He watched as they tried to shove me into the back seat.

"I said, let go of her."

In a blur of motion, he moved.

One of the men reached out to shove him back, but he caught the man's wrist in mid-air.

He applied a quick, brutal pinch to a pressure point, and the thug let out a strangled cry of pain, his grip on my arm loosening instantly. I scrambled back, falling against the wall of the waiting shed as I watched in stunned silence.

He dodged a wild swing from the second man, countering with a lightning-fast punch to the throat that sent the man reeling.

The third guy lunged with a knife, but he pivoted on his heel, caught the man's arm, and sent him flying into the side of the SUV with a sickening thud.

It was over in less than a minute.

The three men were groaning on the ground, and he was barely out of breath. He adjusted his jacket, his eyes turning back to me.

"I told you," he said, "Your life is in danger. My brother's wife might look like a saint in the tabloids, but she is ruthless underneath those fake smiles. She wants you dead, Sandra. She wants the threat you represent to be erased."

My breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I looked at the men on the floor, then back at him.

"H-How did you know they would come?"

"Because I know how that family operates. I know them well," he said, stretching out his hand toward me.

"My name is Harold. And I'm the only chance you and that baby have of seeing tomorrow."

This time, I didn't hesitate.

The pride was gone. I reached out and took his hand. His grip was firm and warm, pulling me up.

"Come with me," he said.

I climbed into his car. As he pulled away, the compartment was silent.

I stared out the window, my mind racing. If Harold hadn't arrived, I would be dead.

Did David know... about Cyndrel? I shook my head. It didn't matter.

He doesn't care about me.

When the car finally hummed to a stop, I stayed frozen in the leather seat for a moment, my eyes widening as I peered through the tinted glass.

I expected a safe house-maybe a secluded cabin or a high-security apartment.

Instead, I was staring at an estate that rivaled David's in every way.

It was a fortress of modern architecture, sharp lines of glass and dark stone that looked both beautiful and intimidating.

If David's home was a palace of old-money tradition, Harold's was a monument to cold, calculated power.

The guards appeared instantly. One of them opened my door, and I stepped out onto the gravel, feeling smaller than ever in my torn, mud-stained dress.

"Follow me," Harold said, not looking back.

I followed him through the massive front doors.

Inside, the foyer was breathtaking.

The ceilings were so high they seemed to disappear into the shadows, and the air was perfectly climate-controlled, smelling of expensive wax and fresh lilies.

Harold stopped in the center of the hall and gave a sharp, single snap of his fingers.

A team of maids appeared from the side corridors. They bowed their heads and moved toward me.

"Take her upstairs," he commanded.

"Clean her up. Get her whatever she needs."

The women guided me to a guest suite that was larger than my entire apartment building.

They led me into a bathroom that felt more like a spa, carved out of white quartz.

I watched, stunned, as they lit scented candles-lavender-filling the air with a soothing mist.

They ran a bath of steaming water, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I let myself relax.

When I finally stepped out, feeling human again, a fresh dress was waiting for me on the bed.

It was a deep, midnight blue silk. As I zipped it up, I realized with a start that it fit me perfectly-every curve, every inch was accounted for.

How did he get this so fast? I wondered.

The thought of Harold had likely been watching me long before he rescued me sent a shiver down my spine.

I don't want to think about it.

I brushed my hair until it shone and descended the grand staircase.

At the bottom of the steps, Harold was waiting.

He was leaning against the bannister, his dark suit impeccable, a glass of dark liquid in his hand.

As I reached the final few steps, his gaze drifted up, and his eyes stayed on me for a long, heavy moment.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"No wonder my brother was willing to risk a marriage for you," he said, his voice a low purr.

"You didn't just catch his eye; you swayed him with every look. You have a way of wearing beauty like a weapon, Sandra."

I reached the floor and stood my ground, refusing to let his charm disarm me.

"Beauty didn't save me from the gutter, Harold. It didn't stop your brother from throwing me away like trash."

"True," he conceded, taking a sip of his drink.

"Which is why I'm offering you something better than beauty. I'm offering you an escape. A one-time chance to burn the bridge behind you."

I crossed my arms.

"And what does that look like? You've already shown me you can fight. What else can you do?"

Harold stepped closer, his expression turning deadly serious.

"You are going to fake your death. Tonight, Sandra, you cease to exist. The girl who was David's mistake-she's going to die in a way that leaves no doubt. I will make sure David receives the news. He will feel the weight of what he did. He will live with the ghost of the woman he discarded."

My breath hitched.

"And then what?"

"And then you disappear," he continued.

"I will send you away, somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. You'll have the best care for that child. You'll be trained, refined, and remade. And years from now, when the time is right, you will return. But you won't return as a mistress or a victim."

He reached out, his fingers brushing the silk of my sleeve.

"You will return as my wife."

That made me pause.

"We will walk back into that mansion together, and we will take everything David thinks is his. His pride, his company, his sanity. What do you say, Sandra? Are you ready to die so you can finally learn how to live?"

I looked at him, seeing the same ruthless ambition in his eyes that I felt burning in my own heart.

I thought of David laughing at the party. I thought of Cyndrel's cold smile. I thought of the baby I was carrying.

"I say," I whispered, my voice hardening, "tell me how to start."

David's POV

Sandra's face was burned into my head.

No matter how many times I blinked or turned away, I could still see her standing there, shattered and humiliated.

"David? Are you even listening to me?"

Cyndrel's voice broke through my thoughts.

She was sitting at her vanity, removing her jewelry after the party.

She looked so composed, so perfect.

"That secretary of yours...Sandra. It's finally over, right? I can't believe she had the nerve to show up here like that. I actually trusted her."

I looked at my wife through the reflection in the mirror.

I felt a pang of nausea.

"Of course, honey. It's over," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth.

"She was so delusional," she continued, shaking her head.

"Thinking she could trick us into believing she was pregnant. You wouldn't ever do that to me, right? You wouldn't throw everything we have away for a girl like that?"

She turned to face me, her eyes searching mine for a reassurance I didn't deserve.

"Of course not," I replied.

But as I watched her smile and return to her nighttime routine, I realized the depth of my own cowardice.

I had told everyone she was a predator, that she had obsessed over me, but the truth was much uglier.

I had let her in.

I had encouraged her.

Most of what happened was my fault. If I hadn't been so weak, if I hadn't sought comfort in her arms during my darkest moments, we wouldn't be standing on the edge of this ruins.

We went to bed. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her scream.

'You're the father!'

I felt the splash of the champagne I had thrown in her face-a gesture meant to prove my loyalty to Cyndrel, but one that now felt like a brand of shame on my soul.

I couldn't stay in that bed.

Long after Cyndrel's breathing had evened out, I slipped out of the room. I grabbed my keys and drove.

I didn't have an address, but I had resources.

A few phone calls to my private security team, I had a location.

I found myself driving deep into the heart of a district.

The streets were narrow, cramped, and littered with the debris of poverty.

My luxury car felt like an alien spacecraft in these alleyways, drawing stares from the shadows.

This was where she lived? This was the world she went back to every night after leaving my study?

I found the building-a decaying apartment complex that looked like it was held together by nothing but rust and hope.

I climbed the stairs and knocked on a door that felt like it might fall off its hinges.

An older woman, looking weary and sharp-tongued, opened the door.

"What now? If you're looking for rent, I already told the police I don't have-" She stopped, her eyes widening as she took in my tailored suit.

"I'm looking for a woman named Sandra," I said, my voice tight.

"Sandra?" The woman let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

"You're too late, Mister. I kicked that girl out. She hasn't paid her bills in months. I threw her and her trashy clothes right out onto the pavement."

My heart dropped.

"What?! Where is she now?!"

"How should I know? She's probably sleeping under a bridge or back at whatever gutter she crawled out of. Good riddance, I say. She was nothing but trouble. Once I find out where she's hiding, I'm suing her for back rent."

The cruelty in the woman's voice made my blood boil.

It was the same cruelty I had shown Sandra.

I reached into my coat and pulled out a thick stack of bills-a large amount, far more than any rent she could possibly owe.

"Here," I said, shoving the money into the woman's hand.

"This covers everything Sandra owes you. And then some. Consider her debt settled."

Her jaw dropped as she fanned the bills.

"This... this is too much. Thank you! Thank you!"

I didn't stay for her gratitude.

I walked back to my car, my mind racing.

I needed to talk to her.

Privately.

Without Cyndrel watching, without the pressure of my reputation.

When I saw her crying at the party, something had shifted inside me.

At first I thought she was lying about the pregnancy...

But there was a look in her eyes-a raw, terrifying honesty-that told me I was really the father.

And if she was pregnant, and she was out there with nowhere to go...I have to find her.

I fucked up big time. My conscience is eating me alive.

I approached a group of men sitting on plastic crates nearby, drinking from a shared bottle.

"Hey. Have any of you seen a woman around here? Beautiful, long hair? She would have been carrying a suitcase."

The men looked at each other, then back at me with a smirk.

"Oh, yeah. We saw her. Quite a show she put on."

"Where did she go?" I demanded.

"Well," one of them said, leaning back.

"A car pulled up. A nice one, too. Not as fancy as yours, but close."

My pulse quickened.

"A car? Who was in it?"

"A man," the guy replied, scratching his chin.

"Tall guy. Handsome, too. Looked a bit like you, actually. He seemed to know her."

The air left my lungs. A man who looked like me.

There was only one person who fit that description.

"Harold..." I whispered into the dark.

A cold, sinking dread settled in my stomach. If my brother had Sandra, this is war.

I couldn't stay in that squatter area any longer.

I got back into my car and drove, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. I needed to find her. I needed to fix this before the rot of what I'd done consumed everything.

As soon as I was back within city limits, I dialed my lead private investigator.

"James, I need an immediate location on a subject," I said, my voice tight.

"I'm sending you the photos and the last known coordinates now. I don't care what it costs. Just find him if he's with her!"

"On it, Sir David," he replied.

The next few hours were a living hell.

I sat in my office back at the mansion. I didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was. I had lost all track of time just thinking about her...

I couldn't stop thinking about her-the way her eyes had looked when the champagne hit her face, the way she had clutched those papers.

I had treated her like a nuisance, a stain on my reputation, but now that she was gone, her presence felt louder than ever.

I realized I was haunted. I had allowed the pressure of my name and Cyndrel's expectations to turn me into a man I didn't recognize.

I was pacing the floor when my phone buzzed.

I snatched it up, expecting James.

But the caller ID was blank.

"Hello?" I answered, my heart hammering.

"How are you, my good brother?"

The voice was smooth, cold, and instantly recognizable.

My grip tightened on the phone until the plastic groaned.

"Harold," I hissed.

"Where's Sandra?!"

He chuckled.

It was a dark, uneven sound.

"How does it feel, David? Knowing you've spent your life stealing from me!"

"I didn't steal anything from you, Harold," I growled, punching my desk with my free hand.

The dull thud echoed in the empty office.

"You lost because you're reckless. You're unstable!"

"Am I?" he purred.

"Well, if that's the case, then good luck with your life, David. And good luck with that heavy conscience you're carrying. Some things, once broken, can never be fixed. Enjoy the silence."

"Harold!"

The line went dead. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice.

Before I could process the threat, the phone rang again. This time, it was James.

"Any news?"

I barked, not even waiting for a greeting.

"Did you find her?! Is she with Harold?!"

There was a long, agonizing pause on the other end of the line.

I could hear James' heavy breathing.

"Sir... David..."

"Speak, damn it!"

"The woman you were looking for... Sandra. She's dead, Sir."

The world seemed to tilt.

I felt the air leave my lungs as if I'd been kicked in the chest. I grabbed the edge of my desk to keep from collapsing.

"W-What? What are you talking about? That's impossible!"

"She wasn't seen with any other man the one you're talking about, Sir. Her body was found about an hour ago-floating in the river near the outskirts of the district. The local authorities have already declared it a suicide. There was no sign of foul play, just... a desperate jump."

His voice cracked slightly.

"And Sir... the medical examiner confirmed she was indeed pregnant. Four weeks. The child is gone, too."

The phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a soft, muffled sound.

"No," I whispered to the empty room.

"No, no, no..."

The silence in the office became deafening.

I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

She was dead.

I had killed her. I hadn't pushed her into that water myself, but I might as well have.

I had stripped her of her dignity, her hope, and her safety, and then I had watched as the world swallowed her whole.

I fell into my chair, burying my face in my hands.

My breath came in jagged, broken sobs. All the power, all the billions, all the prestige in the world couldn't bring back the life I had just snuffed out.

"I-It's my fault..." I mourned into the darkness of my palms.

"It's all my fucking fault!"