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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Etta Stark POV:

Fremont held Corina behind him, a human shield against my grief. As I lunged, a wild, cornered animal, Corina did something grotesquely brilliant. In the chaos of the moment, she twisted, scraping her own arm hard against the jagged edge of a broken table.

A thin line of red appeared on her skin.

"Etta, you cut me!" she shrieked, her voice a pitch-perfect symphony of terror and pain. She stumbled back, cradling her arm, her eyes wide with fake horror.

Fremont' s head snapped toward her. He saw the blood. His face, which had been a mask of irritation, transformed into a canvas of pure fury.

"You crazy bitch," he spat at me, his voice low and dangerous.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, sleek pocketknife. The blade clicked open, gleaming under the dim light.

"You want to hurt people, Etta?" he sneered, advancing on me. "Let' s see how you like it."

He grabbed my left hand, the uninjured one. I tried to pull back, but his grip was like iron. He was not the boy who protected me from dogs anymore. He was a monster.

He pressed the tip of the blade into the back of my hand.

The pain was clean, sharp, and absolute. It stole the air from my lungs. I watched, disembodied, as the knife sank into my flesh, a bright red blossom of blood blooming around the steel.

I couldn't even scream. A strangled gasp was all that escaped. The room swam, dark spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

"You think you' re so important, don' t you?" he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You think this marriage contract makes you untouchable?" He twisted the knife slightly, and a wave of nausea washed over me.

"The engagement is off," he declared, his voice cold and final. "I' m done with you. You are not fit to be a Warren. You are not fit to be my wife."

He pulled the knife out and let go of my hand. I staggered back, clutching the wound, blood pouring between my fingers.

"Guards!" he bellowed. Two of his personal security men appeared at the doorway.

"Lock her in here," Fremont commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "She is not to leave this room. And she is to receive no medical attention."

He looked at my bleeding hand with utter contempt. "She can come out when she' s ready to get on her knees and apologize to Corina."

He then turned to Corina, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. He scooped her up into his arms, cradling her as if she were made of glass. "It' s okay, baby," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "I' ve got you. From now on, you are the lady of this house."

He carried her out of the room, leaving me in the ruins of my parents' memory. The last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me was my blood, dripping onto the shattered glass of my parents' wedding photo, staining their happy faces red.

An entire month passed. I was a prisoner in my own home, confined to the desecrated penthouse. Maria, loyal Maria, risked her job to sneak me bandages and antiseptic, her eyes filled with pity and rage.

From my high window, I could see the city. And the city could see Fremont. He was everywhere. He showered Corina with lavish gifts-cars, jewels, a new apartment. He took her to every high-profile event, his hand always possessively on her pregnant belly. Their faces were plastered on every screen, every magazine cover.

Then came the announcement. Fremont Warren and Corina Gonzales, Engaged to be Wed. Their engagement photo, a sickeningly sweet portrait of him kissing her cheek, was displayed on the massive digital billboards in Times Square, playing on a loop. A public declaration of my replacement.

One day, they came to visit me in my prison. Fremont stood in the doorway, looking smug and powerful. Corina clung to his arm, her diamond engagement ring catching the light.

"Have you had enough, Etta?" Fremont asked, a cruel smile on his face. "Are you ready to apologize now?"

I just stared at him, my silence a wall he could not breach.

His smile faltered. "Fine," he snapped. "If you won' t bend, you' ll break. On the day of the shareholder meeting, I will have you publicly disowned. And all this junk," he said, kicking at one of my father' s books, "will be thrown in the trash where it belongs."

He turned to leave, pulling Corina with him. As they walked away, I heard him give one last order to the guards at my door.

"Tomorrow is the meeting. Drag her there if you have to. I want everyone to see her when I cast her out."

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