Etta Stark POV:

The door to my studio creaked open, and the scent of Fremont' s expensive cologne filled the air, a cloying, unwelcome intrusion. I didn' t look up from the seating chart.

"You' ve been in here for hours," he said, his voice laced with that false, patronizing warmth he used when he wanted something. He placed a steaming mug of coffee beside my hand. I didn't touch it.

"I' m busy, Fremont."

He leaned over my shoulder, his chin almost resting on my hair. I flinched. "I need a small favor."

I waited.

"Corina is feeling a bit left out," he began, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "I was thinking… we should add her to the guest list for the gala."

My pen stopped moving. A single, perfect drop of black ink bled into the pristine white cardstock, marring the name of a respected judge. The sound of my own breathing was suddenly loud in the silent room.

He wanted to bring his pregnant mistress to a gala honoring the memory of the parents whose sacrifice had given him everything. He wanted her to sit among our friends, our family, on the most sacred night of my year.

"Are you insane?" The words were a ghost of a whisper, but they carried the weight of a scream.

"Etta, don't be dramatic."

"You want to bring that… woman… to my parents' memorial?" I finally looked up at him, my eyes burning. "Do you have any idea what you' re asking?"

"I know it' s important to you," he said, his expression a mask of sincerity that made my stomach turn. He had the audacity to look hurt. "But Corina is pregnant with my child. She' s going to be part of the family. It' s better if everyone gets used to the idea sooner rather than later."

He looked at me then, his gaze deep and manipulative, the way a snake might watch a mouse. "Besides, you' re always so understanding. You' re Etta Stark. You know how to handle these things with grace."

Understanding. The word was a slap in the face. He wasn' t asking for my understanding. He was demanding my surrender.

My hand trembled. The coffee mug he' d brought was still steaming. Without a second thought, I picked it up and deliberately poured the hot liquid onto the floor, a few feet from his polished leather shoes. It splashed, a dark, ugly stain on the antique rug.

"Was that understanding enough for you?" I asked, my voice dripping with ice.

Fremont didn't even flinch. His calm was more infuriating than any outburst would have been. "Etta, that was childish." He took a step toward me, his hand outstretched as if to check if I' d burned myself.

I recoiled as if his touch were acid. "Don' t you dare touch me."

"Stop this act," he sighed, his patience finally fraying. The charming mask slipped, revealing the cold arrogance beneath. "I don' t have time for your tantrums."

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking with a rage that felt seismic.

"We' re not done here."

"I said, get out!" I grabbed the nearest object on my desk-a heavy, pointed silver letter opener, a gift from my father. I held it up, not as a weapon, but as a final, desperate barrier. "Don' t push me, Fremont."

For the first time, his expression changed. Not to fear, but to annoyance. "Put that down. You' ll hurt yourself."

He lunged for it. I held on tight, a guttural 'no' tearing from my throat. His fingers wrapped around mine, trying to pry the letter opener from my grasp. The struggle was brief, pathetic. He was so much stronger.

There was a sharp, searing pain.

I gasped, my grip slackening. He pulled the letter opener free. Blood, dark and shockingly red, welled up from a deep gash in the palm of my hand. It dripped onto the seating chart, landing squarely between my name and his, a crimson stain that obliterated the ampersand connecting us.

We both froze, staring at the blood.

Then, his phone rang. The tinny, cheerful ringtone belonged to Corina. I knew it because he' d let it play in front of me a dozen times.

He looked at my bleeding hand. He looked at the ringing phone.

And he answered it.

"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice instantly softening, dripping with a tenderness he hadn' t shown me in years. "What' s wrong? Are you okay?"

The world went silent. The physical pain in my hand was a distant echo compared to the chasm that ripped open in my chest. It felt like my heart was being torn in two, slowly, meticulously, by a pair of invisible, brutal hands.

He turned his back to me, whispering reassurances to her, while my blood continued to drip, drip, drip onto the floor.

After what felt like an eternity, he ended the call and turned back to me. He let out a long, weary sigh, a sound of pure exasperation.

"Corina feels bad," he said, not even looking at my hand. "She doesn' t want to 'make things difficult' for you."

He paused, letting the manipulative words hang in the air. "She says she' d feel uncomfortable if she came, but she' d also feel uncomfortable if you went without her, knowing you were alone."

A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips. "So what' s your brilliant solution, Fremont?"

He looked me straight in the eye, his gaze cold and final. "I canceled it. The gala is off."

I stared at him, unable to process the words. Canceled. He had canceled my parents' memorial. For her. For a whim.

Ten years ago, my father, Robert Stark, had signed over his entire company, Stark Industries, to save Warren Corp from a hostile takeover. The deal had cost him everything-his fortune, his health, his life. He died of a heart attack six months later, a broken man. I was left an orphan. The Warren patriarch, Fremont' s grandfather, had sworn a sacred oath on my father' s grave to care for me, to honor the Stark legacy. This marriage, this union, was the fulfillment of that blood pact. The annual gala was the one thread connecting me to that past, to the parents I barely remembered.

And Fremont had just severed it. For a woman he' d met six months ago.

"I' ll make it up to you," he said, his voice void of any real emotion. He stepped forward and did something so monstrously cruel it took my breath away. He gently brushed a strand of hair from my face and kissed my forehead, a gesture of empty, theatrical affection.

"After I' m officially CEO, we' ll get married," he whispered, his lips cold against my skin. "Then everything will be right again. Just be a good girl until then, Etta."

He walked out, leaving me standing in a pool of my own blood, the ghost of his treacherous kiss burning on my skin.

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Etta Stark POV:

The shareholder' s meeting was in three weeks. Three weeks until Fremont Warren would officially be handed the scepter of power-the CEO title of the Warren-Stark empire. It was a mere formality, a coronation he had been preparing for his entire life. In his mind, he was already king.

I retreated. The world outside my rooms ceased to exist. I didn' t eat. I didn' t sleep. The house staff would leave trays of food outside my door, and they would be taken away hours later, untouched. The only thing I consumed was the silence, and it was a bitter meal.

The wound on my hand scabbed over, a jagged, ugly line that served as a constant reminder. It throbbed with a dull ache, a physical manifestation of the rot that had set into my life.

Then the messages from Corina started again. A relentless barrage of poison delivered directly to my phone.

Are you two even really engaged? Fremont says it' s just a business arrangement. He says he' s never even slept with you.

You' re just a relic from the past, Etta. An obligation. He told me he can' t wait to be free of you.

Why don' t you just disappear? It would make things so much easier for everyone.

Let him go. He loves me. He wants to be with me and our baby.

Then came the picture. A selfie. Corina, wrapped in Fremont' s bedsheets, her pregnant belly proudly on display. Fremont was asleep beside her, his arm thrown protectively over her. She was smiling, a triumphant, vicious little smirk.

The caption beneath it read: He still makes love to me every night, even with the baby. When was the last time he touched you like this, Etta? Or has he ever?

My thumb hovered over the screen. I felt nothing. No rage, no tears. Just a vast, cold emptiness. I calmly blocked her number and deleted the entire message thread.

A week later, a formal family dinner was arranged. An attempt by the Warren elders to project an image of stability in the face of the swirling scandal. My attendance was not optional.

I dressed in a severe black dress, the bandage on my hand a stark white contrast. I walked into the grand dining room, my head held high. The long, polished mahogany table was filled with the faces of the Warren clan-uncles, aunts, cousins. Their gazes were a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. I could feel their unspoken apologies hanging in the air like a bad smell.

My designated seat, the one to the right of the head of the table where the patriarch would sit, was my birthright. It was the seat my mother had once occupied, the seat that signified my position as the future matriarch of the family.

I walked toward it, each step a deliberate act of reclaiming what was mine.

And then I stopped.

My breath caught in my throat. The world tilted on its axis.

Sitting in my chair, nestled beside Fremont, was Corina Gonzales.

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Etta Stark POV:

Corina was dressed in a soft, white maternity dress, the picture of virginal innocence. Her hair was pulled back simply, and her makeup was minimal, designed to highlight the pale, fragile look she had perfected. She looked like a frightened doe caught in the headlights. A harmless, love-struck girl who had accidentally stumbled into a world of power and intrigue.

It was a masterful performance.

Fremont was leaning toward her, whispering something in her ear that made her blush. He placed a protective hand on the small of her back.

The entire table had fallen silent. The clinking of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation-it all died. The Warren elders looked profoundly uncomfortable, their gazes shifting from me to Fremont to the floor.

I stood at the end of the table, the silent, rightful queen who had just found a usurper on her throne.

I did not raise my voice. I did not need to.

"Get out of my seat," I said. The words were quiet, but they cut through the silence like a shard of glass.

Corina jumped, her eyes widening in fabricated shock. She knocked over her water glass, the crystal clattering against the plate. "Oh! I' m so sorry," she stammered, her lower lip trembling. She looked at Fremont, her eyes welling with tears. "Fremont, I…"

"It' s just a chair, Etta," Fremont said, his voice tight with annoyance. He didn' t even look at me. He was too busy dabbing at Corina' s dress with his napkin.

"It is not 'just a chair,' " I replied, my voice as hard as steel. "That is the seat of the lady of this house. A position you are not, and never will be, qualified to hold. Now, for the last time, get out."

Corina let out a small sob and buried her face in Fremont' s shoulder.

"For God' s sake, Etta, stop it," Fremont snapped, finally glaring at me. "She' s pregnant. She needs to be close to me in case she feels unwell. Show some compassion."

Compassion. The word was a lit match in a room full of gasoline.

"That seat," I said, my voice rising, "was bought with my father' s life. It was paid for with the entirety of the Stark legacy. It represents a promise made in blood. What right does she have to sit there? What has she ever sacrificed?"

Fremont shot to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. He moved to stand in front of Corina, shielding her with his body as if I were a physical threat. "She has the right because she is carrying my son!" he roared, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "And I will not have anyone, not even you, disrespect the mother of my child!"

He was protecting her. From me.

A memory, sharp and unwanted, flashed through my mind. I was seven years old, cornered by a growling dog in the garden. Fremont, then a boy of twelve, had stood in front of me just like this, his arms spread wide, yelling at the dog to go away. He had promised me then, his voice fierce and protective, "I' ll always keep you safe, Etta. Always."

That boy was gone. In his place stood a stranger who looked at me with cold fury. A man who had transferred his loyalty, his protection, his entire world, to another woman.

The dinner was over before it began. The room emptied in a flurry of awkward apologies and averted eyes, leaving the three of us standing in the wreckage.

That night, Fremont came to my room. He reeked of whiskey and self-righteousness.

"You embarrassed me tonight, Etta," he slurred, leaning against the doorframe. "You embarrassed Corina."

I said nothing. I simply unlocked my phone and held it out to him. On the screen was the thread of Corina' s harassing messages, culminating in the intimate photo of them in his bed.

He stared at it, the color draining from his face. For a moment, he looked genuinely stunned.

"She… she was just scared," he stammered, recovering quickly. "She' s insecure. I' ll talk to her." He offered a pathetic, half-hearted apology on her behalf.

He then tried to wrap his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my hair. The smell of another woman was on his skin. I felt my stomach heave.

"Let' s just get through this," he murmured against my ear. "Once I' m CEO, I' ll marry you. I promise. Just be patient. Try to understand Corina. She' s been through a lot."

I felt a violent revulsion so powerful it was a physical force. I shoved him away from me, stumbling back.

"Get your hands off me," I hissed, my voice filled with a loathing that surprised even me.

He looked at me, his drunken eyes struggling to focus.

"I will not marry you, Fremont," I said, the words tasting like freedom on my tongue. "Not now. Not ever."

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