The siren wailed, fading down the long driveway lined with oak trees.

Dillard stood on the porch. The ambulance was a shrinking white dot. He should be on it. Husbands went on the ambulance.

"She is manipulative, Dillard," Antonina said from the doorway. Her voice was calm, reasonable. "It's a classic ploy. She creates a scene to avoid the divorce talk."

Dillard looked at his hands. They were shaking slightly. He shoved them into his pockets. "You really think so? There was so much blood, Mother."

"I know so. Women like her survive by their wits. Blood packets are easy to buy. Go to the office. Don't let her win."

Dillard clenched his jaw. He turned and walked to his Aston Martin. He didn't go to the hospital. He drove to Bentley Tower, desperate to believe the lie because the alternative was too heavy to carry.

In the emergency room of Mount Sinai, chaos reigned.

Erica drifted in and out of consciousness. The lights were blinding.

"No fetal heartbeat," a voice said. It sounded far away.

"We need to operate. Dilation and curettage. Immediately."

Erica opened her eyes. A doctor was leaning over her, looking grim. "Mrs. Bentley? I'm so sorry. You've lost the baby."

Baby? Erica whispered. She hadn't known. Her binding agent must have failed weeks ago. The fatigue, the nausea... she had attributed it to stress and the toxins.

"We ran your blood panel," the doctor said, his brow furrowed. "The toxicology report is showing a severe reaction. There are high concentrations of an unknown chemical compound interacting with your hormones. It looks like..."

"Mifepristone," Erica rasped, her mind racing despite the pain. She recognized the symptoms now. The cramping intensity, the specific nature of the blood flow. Antonina hadn't just spiked her vitamins with suppressants this time. She had given her an abortifacient.

The doctor looked startled. "We haven't identified it yet, but the effects are consistent with a chemical termination. And because of the toxicity levels in your blood, your clotting factors are compromised. We can't use general anesthesia. It's too risky with your current vitals."

Erica stared at the ceiling. Vitamins. Karie. Antonina.

They killed it. They killed her child before she even knew it existed. And Dillard... Dillard who let them feed her poison.

Rage, hot and purifying, burned through the grief.

"Do the surgery," she said.

"We can wait until you stabilize to use anesthesia," the doctor suggested gently. "It will be incredibly painful without it."

"Do it now," Erica said. Her voice was iron. "I want to feel it."

She wanted to carve this pain into her memory. She wanted to remember exactly what loving Dillard Bentley had cost her.

At the office, Dillard stared at a merger file. The words swam. He picked up his phone. No missed calls from the hospital.

Lloyd, his assistant, walked in. "Boss. The hospital called."

"And?" Dillard asked, feigning indifference.

"They didn't give details. Privacy laws. But... it sounded serious."

Dillard felt a twinge of unease. He pushed it down.

His phone rang. The screen flashed: Brisa.

"Dillard!" Brisa's voice was high, panicked. "There's a man outside the auction venue. He's taking photos of me. I'm scared."

The unease vanished, replaced by the familiar drive to protect. "Stay inside. I'm coming."

He grabbed his keys. He didn't think about the ambulance. He thought about the woman who had supposedly saved him from the ocean. He ran out the door, leaving his wife to bleed alone.

The sound of metal scraping against metal.

Erica bit down on the leather strap they had given her. A scream trapped in her throat turned into a low, animalistic moan. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering it to her skull.

The pain was blinding. It was a physical violation, a scraping away of hope.

"Breathe, Erica. Breathe," the nurse whispered, holding her hand. Erica squeezed until she thought she might break the woman's fingers.

It ended. Finally, it ended.

Erica lay limp on the gurney, shivering uncontrollably. They moved her to a recovery room. It was small, shared with another patient behind a curtain. No VIP suite for the unloved wife.

The door flew open. Gisselle Dixon rushed in. She was a whirlwind of fury and Chanel No. 5.

"Oh my god, Erica."

Gisselle saw the bloodless face, the hollow eyes. She burst into tears.

"Who did this? Who?"

Erica lifted a hand. It was heavy. "Don't cry, G."

The doctor stepped in. He pulled Gisselle into the hallway. Erica could hear the murmur of voices, then Gisselle's sharp intake of breath. Then a shout.

"Toxins? You mean poison? That family poisoned her?"

"Shh, Miss Dixon, please. We are still analyzing the compounds."

Gisselle stormed back in. She grabbed Erica's phone from the bedside table. "I'm calling him. I'm calling the police. I'm calling everyone."

She dialed Dillard.

"Speaker," Erica whispered.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

"Yeah?" Dillard's voice. In the background, jazz music played. Glasses clinked. Laughter. A woman's laughter.

"You son of a bitch," Gisselle screamed. "Erica is in the hospital. She lost the baby. She just had surgery without anesthesia because your mother drugged her!"

There was a pause on the line. Then Dillard's voice, cold and dismissive. "Gisselle? Stop the drama. Erica put you up to this? Tell her the divorce terms are non-negotiable. I'm busy."

Click.

He hung up.

Gisselle stared at the phone, her mouth open. "He... he hung up."

Erica closed her eyes. A tear leaked out, hot and solitary. "Good."

"Good?" Gisselle yelled. "He's a monster!"

"It's good," Erica said, opening her eyes. The sadness was gone. In its place was something cold and hard, like a diamond. "Because now I don't have to feel guilty about what I'm going to do."

She sat up. The room spun.

"Help me up, G."

"You can't leave."

"I'm not staying in a Bentley-funded hospital. Did you get the bag?"

"Yes," Gisselle sniffled, wiping her eyes. "I stopped by the penthouse on my way here like you asked. I packed your essentials. And... I saw the papers on the nightstand. I took them, Erica. I wasn't going to let you leave them behind for him to ignore."

"Good. Take me to Brooklyn. To the loft."

The secret loft. Gisselle knew it. The place where Dr. N lived.

Erica slid her legs off the bed. Fresh blood spotted the gown. She didn't care.

"Let's go," she said. "Erica Duffy died on that table."

The Velvet Lounge was dim, smelling of expensive cigars and old leather.

Dillard sat in a plush booth, staring at his phone. The screen was dark. Gisselle's screaming voice echoed in his head. Lost the baby. Drugged.

It was ridiculous. A fabrication. Erica was healthy. She was just desperate.

Galen Sterling, Gisselle's fiancé and Dillard's friend, sat opposite him. He looked uncomfortable. He checked his own phone.

"Everything okay?" Galen asked.

"Fine," Dillard snapped. "Just Erica making a scene. She sent Gisselle to yell at me."

Galen grimaced. "Gisselle can be... intense. She called me too. Said something about a miscarriage."

Dillard swirled his scotch. "She's lying. She's trying to guilt me into staying."

Harrison Vance leaned in. "Ignore it, Dillard. Focus on the deal. If we don't get Avis Tech on board, the stock takes a hit next quarter."

Right. Avis Tech. And the mysterious Dr. N.

Dillard straightened his tie. "I need that meeting. Dr. N is the key to the new medical division."

The door to the private room opened. Brisa glided in. She wore a silver dress that shimmered like fish scales.

"Dillard," she cooed, sliding next to him. "I feel so much safer now that you're here."

She rested her head on his shoulder. Dillard stiffened. Usually, he welcomed her touch. Tonight, it felt cloying. He kept thinking about the silence in the penthouse. And the scent... Lily of the Valley. It used to remind him of innocence. Now, mixed with the stale cigar smoke, it just smelled artificial.

"Did you catch the stalker?" Brisa asked, running a finger down his arm.

"Security is handling it," Dillard muttered.

Brisa reached for his glass. "Let me have a sip."

Dillard pulled it away. "No. Get your own."

Brisa blinked, hurt flashing in her eyes. She recovered quickly. "You're stressed. Is it about Dr. N? I heard he's coming to the summit. Maybe I can charm him for you?"

Dillard looked at her. "You? Charm a recluse scientist?"

"Why not? Men love me."

Dillard felt a flash of annoyance. "Not everyone is me, Brisa."

He didn't know why he said it. He didn't know why the image of Erica's pale face at lunch was haunting him. He needed to prove she was lying. He needed to prove he wasn't the villain Gisselle said he was.