Erica POV:

Two days. I was in that suffocating darkness for two days. They let me out only for brief, humiliating trips to the bathroom, a bottle of water and a protein bar shoved into my hands before I was locked back in.

On the third morning, the lock clicked and the door swung open. It was Emmanuel, a smirk playing on his lips. The sudden light was blinding.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he drawled, his eyes raking over my disheveled form. "Time to go pick out your wedding dress. Wouldn't want you to be late for your big day."

The words were a cruel joke, but I was too weak and numb to react. He hauled me to my feet and pushed me toward the shower. "Clean yourself up. You look like hell."

An hour later, I was seated in the back of Anthony' s Bentley, sandwiched between the two brothers. Bianca was in the passenger seat, chattering brightly about the designer boutique we were headed to. I stared out the window, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks of color.

The boutique was a palace of white silk and shimmering crystals. Bianca, of course, took center stage.

"Oh, Erica, you poor thing," she said, pulling me into a one-armed hug that felt like a viper's embrace. "I told them they were being too harsh, but you know how protective they are of me." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you enjoy your time in the dark? It brought back memories, didn't it?"

I didn' t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I simply pulled away and gave her a small, polite smile. "It's in the past, Bianca. I'm just happy to be out."

Her own smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her eyes narrowing before she quickly rearranged her features into a mask of sweet benevolence. She didn't like that. She wanted me to fight, to cry, to give her something to play with.

She turned her attention to the dresses, pulling gowns off the rack with theatrical flair. "Oh, Anthony, darling, what do you think of this one for me? For the reception, perhaps?" She held a slinky, backless number against her body, preening for the brothers.

"Stunning, B," Anthony said, his voice thick with adoration.

"You'd look like a goddess," Emmanuel added, his eyes practically devouring her.

They were a perfect, sickening trio, completely ignoring my presence. I felt like a ghost, a prop in their twisted play.

A sales assistant, mistaking the tableau, rushed over to Bianca. "Oh, you must be the bride! You are going to be a vision. Mr. Holden is a very lucky man."

Bianca giggled, lapping up the attention. "Oh, no, you've got it all wrong! I'm just the maid of honor. Erica is the lucky bride." She shot me a look dripping with mock pity. "Anthony, darling, you've been so focused on me, you haven't even helped your fiancée pick a dress."

Anthony finally turned to me, his expression bored. "Have you chosen anything?"

"Not yet," I said quietly.

I walked over to a rack and pulled one out at random. A simple, elegant A-line dress. "This one is fine."

I went into the dressing room and let the assistant help me into it. When I stepped out, the main showroom was empty. The happy trio was gone.

"Oh, they went to look at veils," the assistant said brightly, oblivious to the cold blade of abandonment twisting in my gut. "They said to send the bill for this one to Mr. Holden's account."

I stood there for a moment, looking at my reflection. A pale, hollow-eyed stranger in a beautiful white dress. A sacrificial lamb being dressed for slaughter.

Calmly, I stepped back into the dressing room. "On second thought," I told the assistant, "I don't think this is the one."

I changed back into my clothes and walked out of the boutique without a backward glance.

Later that day, Bianca posted a photo of herself in a ridiculously expensive veil, the diamond embroidery catching the light. The caption: Practicing for my turn. @AnthonyHolden

I looked at it for a second, then closed the screen and continued packing a small duffel bag. I systematically went through the apartment, purging it of my existence. Every book, every piece of clothing, every photograph of us together went into a donation box.

I left only the things he had given me. The jewelry, the designer bags, the expensive art. Trophies from a hunt he had already won.

That evening, Emmanuel came into the bedroom. My bedroom. He was holding a small, velvet box.

"Anthony felt bad about what happened at the boutique," he said, his voice a soft, practiced imitation of his brother's. "He wanted you to have this."

He opened the box to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. I recognized them from a magazine Bianca had been looking at earlier. They were a consolation prize. A pacifier.

I took the box without a word. My cold compliance seemed to unnerve him.

"Are you still angry about the closet?" he asked, trying to read my expression. "Or about Bianca?"

I just shook my head, my eyes downcast. "I'm not angry."

A slow smile spread across his face. He thought he understood. He thought this was jealousy. He stepped closer, tilting my chin up with his finger. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice dropping into the intimate register I now knew was his, and his alone. "After the wedding, she won't be a problem. It will be just you and me... and him, of course."

His thumb stroked my lip, and my entire body went rigid with revulsion. He leaned in, his lips about to touch mine.

I couldn't stop it. A violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I tore myself from his grasp, clapping a hand over my mouth as I stumbled away from him.

"Erica?" His brow furrowed in confusion, the smooth mask of 'Anthony' slipping. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't answer. I just stared at him, at the face of the man who was the father of the child I was about to abort, and the only thing I felt was a profound, soul-deep sickness.

Erica POV:

The revulsion was a physical force, a tidal wave of disgust that my body couldn't contain. I scrambled away from Emmanuel, from his touch, from the very air he breathed, and barely made it to the bathroom before I retched. I knelt over the toilet, my body convulsing as I threw up, not just the meager food I'd eaten, but three years of lies and poisoned intimacy.

Behind me, I heard Emmanuel' s footsteps. He stopped at the doorway.

"Erica? Are you okay?" He was trying to sound like Anthony again, the concerned, gentle fiancé. The performance was so ingrained, he probably didn't even know he was doing it.

I couldn't look at him. I could only see his hands on my body, hear his voice whispering my name, and know that all of it, every single touch, was a lie. The father of my child was a stranger wearing my fiancé's face.

"Don't touch me," I gasped between heaves.

He paused. Then, a new tone entered his voice, a speculative one. "You're not… pregnant, are you?"

My blood ran cold. I heard the faint sound of his phone dialing. He was reporting back to the mastermind.

"She's sick," he said in a low voice. "Throwing up in the bathroom... No, I don't know... What if she is?" There was a pause. "Right. No, of course not. We'll handle it."

He was talking to Anthony. And through the thin wall, I could practically hear Bianca's saccharine voice in the background, offering her fake concern. They would "handle it." The words were a death sentence for the tiny life inside me, a life they didn't even know existed yet but had already condemned.

A flicker of something-a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation-had crossed Emmanuel's voice. A moment of internal conflict? It didn't matter. He had made his choice. They had all made their choice.

I flushed the toilet and pushed myself up, splashing cold water on my face. When I turned, he was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, the mask of Anthony firmly back in place.

"Are you pregnant?" he asked again, his gray eyes-so like Anthony's, yet so different-searching my face.

"No," I said, my voice flat and dead. "It's just a stomach bug."

The next morning, I walked out of the OB-GYN clinic, feeling hollowed out, a part of me irrevocably gone. The procedure had been quick, clinical, and utterly devastating. I had mourned a baby that was conceived in a lie and would never draw a breath. I had mourned the mother I would never be.

As I stepped onto the street, blinking in the harsh sunlight, Anthony' s car pulled up. Anthony himself. The mastermind. He got out, a bouquet of my favorite lilies in his hand.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his voice the smooth, cultured tone I had once found so comforting.

I said nothing, just got in the car. He drove, the car filled with the cloying scent of flowers and silence. He put on music-an indie band Bianca loved. A subtle, constant reminder of who held his heart.

He took me to a lavish lunch at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Bianca and Emmanuel were already there, waiting.

"Erica! Darling!" Bianca chirped, jumping up to hug me. "We were so worried! I brought you a little something to cheer you up." She handed me a gift bag containing a ridiculously expensive silk scarf. A guilt offering.

The lunch was a masterclass in psychological torture. Bianca chattered endlessly, telling stories about her and the "Holden boys" growing up, painting a picture of an exclusive, impenetrable bond. Anthony and Emmanuel played along, laughing at her anecdotes, their gazes soft with affection. I was an outsider, a temporary guest at their private party.

"Erica, you're so quiet," Bianca said, pouting. "Don't be a stranger. We're going to be sisters soon! We should be the best of friends."

My stomach churned, and not from the rich food. A familiar tightness began to creep into my chest. My throat felt thick. I glanced at my plate. The sea bass. It was served with a peanut sauce.

Peanuts. I had a severe, life-threatening allergy to peanuts. An allergy Anthony knew about. An allergy I had listed on every restaurant reservation we had ever made.

My breath hitched. My vision started to swim. I fumbled in my purse for my EpiPen, my fingers clumsy and slow.

"Anthony," I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. "The sauce..."

He looked from my plate to my face, my skin now flushing a blotchy red. For a split second, I saw genuine panic in his eyes. He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He reached for me, his hand outstretched.

And then, Bianca let out a soft, theatrical gasp and slumped sideways in her chair. "Anthony… I don't feel so well," she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut.

Anthony froze. His head whipped back and forth between me, gasping for air, and Bianca, theatrically swooning.

His choice was made in a heartbeat.

He lunged, not for me, but for my purse. He ripped the EpiPen from my desperate fingers.

"Erica, give it to me," he commanded, his voice raw with a frantic urgency I had never heard from him before. An urgency not for me.

Before I could even process the betrayal, he had uncapped the needle and plunged it into Bianca's thigh.

My world went dark at the edges. I was dying. He was letting me die.

"She's a nurse, Anthony," Emmanuel said coolly, watching me slide from my chair. "I'm sure she knows what to do."

Anthony didn't even look at me. He scooped a "fainting" Bianca into his arms and ran from the restaurant. Emmanuel followed, not sparing me a single glance.

They left me on the floor to die.

Erica POV:

As Anthony raced out of the restaurant with Bianca cradled in his arms, his "delicate" childhood sweetheart who was miraculously suffering from my specific and severe allergy, I collapsed completely. My airway was closing, each breath a high-pitched, useless whistle. The world was a terrifying, shrinking tunnel of darkness. My last conscious thought was of his eyes-not angry, not remorseful, but utterly, chillingly indifferent as he chose her over my life.

I woke up a day later in a hospital bed. Not my hospital, but a private one uptown. The first thing I saw was Anthony, sitting in a chair by my bed, his head in his hands. He looked haggard, his perfect suit rumpled.

He looked up as I stirred, and his face flooded with what looked like relief. "Erica," he breathed, rushing to my side and taking my hand. "Thank God. You're awake."

His touch was like a brand. I snatched my hand back as if I'd been burned and turned my face away, closing my eyes.

"Erica, please," he begged, his voice laced with a practiced anguish. "I am so, so sorry. I panicked. Bianca... our families are so intertwined, if something happened to her on my watch..."

He trailed off, letting the excuse hang in the air. He was blaming business. Family alliances. Anything but the simple, brutal truth: he loved her and would let me die for her.

"But I love you," he whispered, the words now a disgusting parody of what they once meant to me. "You are the one I'm marrying. You have to believe that."

Emmanuel appeared in the doorway, his expression equally grave. "He's telling the truth, Erica. We were terrified. We thought we'd lost you."

I let out a laugh, a dry, rasping sound from my raw throat. Terrified? They had left me on the floor. A waiter had found me, blue and unconscious, and called 911. The paramedics had saved my life. Not them.

Their performance was flawless. The concerned fiancé, the worried brother-in-law-to-be. But all I could see were the executioners, checking to see if their victim was still breathing.

"I'm tired," I croaked, keeping my eyes shut. "I want to rest."

They took the hint and left, their footsteps echoing in the silent room. The moment the door clicked shut, my eyes snapped open. The tears I had refused to shed for them finally fell, hot and angry.

This was no longer just about a broken heart. This was about survival. He had tried to kill me. Whether by active malice or passive indifference, the result was the same.

I reached for my phone on the bedside table. My fingers were still weak, but my resolve was iron. I made a call, not to a friend or family, but to a number I had saved from a news article months ago. A number for a live-streaming service that specialized in "public accountability."

"I'd like to book your largest package," I said, my voice steady. "For a wedding. In two and a half weeks."

As I hung up, I noticed something was missing. The locket. Nana's locket was gone. A frantic panic seized me. I tore at the thin hospital gown, searched the sheets, the floor. It was nowhere.

Then, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. It was a picture. My locket, dangling from a set of perfectly manicured fingers. Bianca's fingers.

The photo was followed by a text.

Looking for this? It's a sweet little thing. Heavy, though. I wonder what's inside. Something precious, I bet. It would be a shame if it got... damaged.

A primal rage, cold and pure, surged through me. It eclipsed the pain, the grief, the fear. I threw back the covers, ignoring the protest of my bruised body, and stalked out of the room.

Bianca's room was just down the hall. She was "recovering" from her "allergic reaction." I didn't bother to knock.

I found her standing by the open window, the city lights twinkling behind her. She was holding my locket, letting it swing back and forth over the ledge, a drop of at least twenty stories to the pavement below.

She smiled when she saw me, a venomously sweet smile. "There you are. I was just admiring your little trinket."

"Give it back, Bianca," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

Her smile widened. "I will. But first, I want something. I want to see you beg. Get on your knees, just like you did in college when you begged me to stop. Tell me you're a worthless, pathetic bitch who doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as me."

The locket swung, a tiny silver pendulum marking the seconds of my humiliation. Inside were Nana's ashes. The last piece of her I had left.

"Give. It. Back." Each word was a block of ice.

Bianca's eyes flashed with anger. My refusal to break was infuriating to her. She wanted me to be the same terrified girl she had tormented for years.

"Fine," she snapped, her voice turning sharp and ugly. "Have it your way."

She opened her hand.

The locket fell.

"NO!" I screamed, lunging for the window, my fingers grasping at empty air as the tiny silver heart disappeared into the darkness below.

It was gone. She had thrown my grandmother away like a piece of trash.

I turned from the window, my vision red with fury, and saw Bianca already crumpling to the floor, her face a mask of manufactured terror, her voice a shrill cry for help.

"Anthony! Emmanuel! Help me! Erica's trying to kill me!"

And right on cue, the two brothers burst through the door, their faces contorted with rage directed entirely at me.