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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Etta Stark POV:

The days following the disastrous dinner blurred into a gray haze of isolation. I remained locked in my wing of the mansion, the silence my only companion.

One afternoon, one of the older housemaids, Maria, who had been with my family since before I was born, burst into my room without knocking, her face pale with panic.

"Miss Etta, you must come quickly!" she gasped, her hands trembling.

"Maria, what is it?"

"It' s him. Mr. Fremont… and the other one. They' re in the penthouse. They broke the lock."

A cold dread, sharp and immediate, washed over me. Not the penthouse. Not there.

The top floor of the Warren mansion had been given to my parents when they first merged their lives and companies with the Warrens. After they died, it was sealed. Preserved exactly as they had left it, a perfect, untouched monument to their memory. It was my sanctuary, the only place in this cold, sprawling house that felt like home. It was filled with my mother' s art, my father' s books, the faint, lingering scent of their presence.

I didn' t wait to hear more. I ran. I flew down the hallways and up the grand staircase, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The doors to the penthouse were wide open. The scene inside was one of desecration.

My mother' s favorite vase, a delicate piece of Venetian glass, was shattered on the floor. My father' s leather-bound collection of first-edition novels had been pulled from the shelves and thrown into a messy pile in the corner. Curtains were torn from the windows. The air was thick with dust and destruction.

And in the middle of it all stood Corina Gonzales, holding a small, framed photograph. She had a theatrical smudge of dirt on her cheek and was dabbing at a superficial scratch on her arm.

Fremont was at her side in an instant, fussing over her like she was a wounded child. "Careful, clumsy girl," he cooed, his voice sickeningly sweet. "I told you this place was a dusty old mess." He glanced at the chaos around them without a hint of remorse. "We' ll have it all cleared out soon."

My voice was a raw, ragged thing. "What have you done?"

Fremont finally looked at me, his expression one of mild annoyance at the interruption. "Etta. We were just making some plans."

"Plans?" I choked out, gesturing to the wreckage.

"Corina had an idea," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing redecorating a guest room. "She thought this would make a wonderful nursery for the baby. Lots of natural light."

A nursery. They were going to turn my parents' memorial into a nursery for their child.

He turned his attention back to Corina, gently taking the photo from her hand to examine her tiny scratch. He didn' t even notice the river of tears streaming down my face.

A scream tore from my throat, a sound of pure, animalistic agony. The pain in my chest was so intense that my bandaged hand, the one he had injured, flared with a sympathetic, phantom ache. I clutched it, doubling over.

Startled by my scream, Corina dropped the photograph. The glass shattered. It was a picture of my parents on their wedding day. She had her foot on it. She ground her heel into my father' s smiling face, the sound of crunching glass echoing in the ruined room. It was deliberate.

Fremont immediately pulled her into his arms, shielding her again. "Etta, for Christ' s sake! You' re scaring her!" he yelled at me.

"What right do you have?" I sobbed, my voice breaking. "What right do you have to bring her here?"

"This is my family' s property, Etta," he said, his voice laced with cruel arrogance. "I don' t need your permission to be here."

I stared at him, my mind reeling. His grandfather, the patriarch, had personally handed me the key to this penthouse after my parents' funeral. He had promised me, his eyes full of tears, "This space is yours, Etta. Forever. A permanent testament to the Starks' sacrifice and our eternal gratitude."

Fremont was not just destroying a room; he was spitting on the very foundation of his family' s honor.

"This space is mine, too," I managed to say, my voice trembling but firm. "It was bought with Stark blood." I turned my furious gaze on Corina, who was hiding behind him like a coward. "And what right do you have, you parasite? Get out."

I lunged forward, my only thought to physically drag her from this sacred place.

Fremont moved faster. He stepped between us, his arms forming an impenetrable barrier. He was protecting her. Again. The image burned itself into my brain, a searing brand of betrayal.

"These are just things, Etta!" he snarled, his face twisted with impatience. "Just a bunch of sentimental junk!"

Junk.

He called my parents' memories junk.

Something inside me snapped. The last thread of love, of hope, of a decade-long history, severed completely.

I saw red. I grabbed the base of a heavy, broken floor lamp, its jagged metal edge aimed like a spear. My mind was a white-hot blank. I just wanted the pain to stop. I wanted them to stop.

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