I clutched the cold wall just to keep myself from collapsing.

So that “little princess” post wasn’t love—it was my death sentence.

So all his tenderness and care had been nothing but a façade.

So he had already been with Olivia—and she was carrying his child.

And I, along with the daughter in my womb, was nothing more than an obstacle to their happiness.

An obstacle to be “accidentally” erased at any moment.

I didn’t storm out, didn’t scream, didn’t let those two see my despair.

Instead, I quietly turned, step by step, into the empty stairwell.

My trembling fingers found a number buried in my contacts for three long years.

The call was quickly answered. A low, magnetic male voice came through.

“Hello.”

Just one word, yet it carried such authority and pressure that it caught me like a net before I could fall apart.

“Mr. Blake, this is Rachel Carter.”

“Three years ago, you said if I gave the word, you could destroy the Scott family.”

“Does that still hold?”

The other end was silent for several seconds—long enough for me to think he might refuse.

“It holds.” Ethan Blake’s voice was steady, filled with a quiet reassurance.

“I’ll give you an address. Meet me tomorrow.”

When the call ended, I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I sat on the cold floor, my chest crushed by a weight so heavy I could barely breathe.

Only then did the full terror set in.

Had I not stumbled upon their conversation, soon my daughter and I would have vanished in a meticulously staged “accident.”

Daniel, my husband, would be holding Olivia and their son, moving into a life of happiness bought with my life.

I pulled out my phone and stared at his social media post—his profile picture still our wedding photo.

The blessings beneath it had already piled into the hundreds, each one a stinging slap across my face.

I stared at the words “My little princess, Daddy loves you!” and felt only bitter irony.

My “little princess,” in his plan, was nothing but a “burden.”

A child with a title but no worth, someone disposable at any moment.

I didn’t delete it, didn’t reply. I simply shoved the cold phone back into my pocket, my heart as frozen as the screen.

Standing up, I smoothed my clothes, drew a deep breath, and forced my storm of emotions back beneath the surface.

When I returned home, Daniel wasn’t back yet. The house was empty, filled only with the scent of what had once been “home.”

As usual, I changed my shoes, washed my hands, and stepped into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

The blade struck the cutting board with a dull, steady rhythm—

over and over, echoing my fractured heart.

I remembered our early days of marriage, when I couldn’t cook and ruined the kitchen on my first attempt.

Daniel had come up behind me, wrapping me in his arms, guiding my hands as he taught me how to chop.

His chin rested on my shoulder, warm breath brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

“Rachel, I’ll cook from now on. I don’t want my princess harmed by smoke and grease.”

Words that once moved me to tears now filled me with nothing but disgust.

Each cut of the knife severed another thread of what had once been love.

The lock clicked. Daniel returned, carrying a delicate cake box, his familiar warm smile plastered on his face.

“Rachel, look what I brought you—your favorite strawberry mousse.”

He entered the kitchen, eyes flickering with a trace of suspicion as he watched me chopping.

He moved closer, trying to embrace me as he always had, but the touch I once found comforting now churned my stomach.

I sidestepped, pointing at the knife in my wet hand. “I’ve got water on me. Don’t want to get you wet.”

Daniel froze for a second, then quickly recovered, lips curving into a fond smile.

“I’ll put the cake away then. Be careful with the knife, don’t hurt yourself.”

He placed the cake in the fridge, then returned, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

His breath brushed against my neck, carrying a perfume scent that wasn’t mine.

It was Olivia’s favorite fragrance—“Diva Icon.”

My stomach lurched, bile rising, though I forced my voice to remain calm.

“Did you pick up the report from the hospital today? What did the doctor say?” He pressed closer, almost as if testing me.

“I did. Everything’s fine.” I kept my voice even, hiding any cracks.

“Good.” He kissed my cheek softly, his tone dripping with affection.

“Our daughter will grow up healthy and strong.”

I stayed silent, chopping faster, each slice cutting through his false tenderness.

Sensing my coldness, he tightened his hold, his voice probing: “Rachel, what’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?”

“No.” I turned off the faucet, faced him with an emotionless gaze.

“Just tired.”

He studied me closely, suspicion flickering in his eyes, before finally loosening his grip and cupping my face.

“Pregnancy is exhausting. Eat dinner and rest early. Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping for clothes—for you and the baby.”

His performance was flawless. If I hadn’t overheard the truth with my own ears, I might have fallen into his lies again, willingly stepping into his trap.

At dinner, I stared at the table full of dishes, feeling only nausea.

Daniel kept piling food onto my plate, playing the part of a perfect husband.

“Eat more. You’re eating for two now.”

“This fish soup is good for pregnant women. I had Mrs. Zhang make it especially—try some.”

Looking at his concerned face, I almost laughed.

Here was a man plotting to kill me and my child, yet urging me to eat more at the dinner table—such hypocrisy, such cruelty.

I set my chopsticks down, meeting his gaze with clear, unshaken eyes.

“Daniel.” I called his name like I would a stranger’s.

“Hm? What is it? Are you not feeling well?” He froze, then his face shifted to anxious concern, setting down his chopsticks and taking my hand.

“Do you love me?” I pulled my hand free, staring straight into his eyes, searching for the slightest flicker.

He paused, then smiled, reaching for my hand again—though it carried no warmth.

“Silly girl, of course I do. If I don’t love you, who else would I love?”

“Then…” I withdrew my hand once more, my gaze colder still.

“Do you love our child? Even if she’s a girl?”

Daniel’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, a flash of unease in his eyes. He hadn’t expected me to ask that.

But he recovered quickly, his tone firm. “Of course I do. Boy or girl, our baby is our treasure. I even said on social media that she’s my little princess.”

Yes—little princess. A princess in name only, someone he could sacrifice at any time.

I didn’t press him further. I lowered my head and pushed at the rice in my bowl. It tasted like sand—dry and flavorless.

Through Daniel’s “devoted husband” performance at dinner, I chewed on nothing but cold hatred.

That night, I lay in bed with my back to Daniel, my body stiff as stone.

He curled around me from behind, his hand slipping into my pajamas with practiced familiarity, settling over my flat belly.

“Was the baby good today? Did she kick Mommy?” The intimacy in his voice made my skin crawl.

I went rigid, a wave of disgust crashing over me. I slapped his hand away and turned over.

“I’m tired. I want to sleep.” I shut my eyes, unwilling to look at his false face.

He pressed close again, aggrieved. “Rachel, what’s wrong with you today? Did I do something?”

I kept my eyes closed and said evenly, without a trace of emotion, “No. I just don’t feel well.”

Silence stretched behind me so long I thought he’d fallen asleep.

In the dark, he sighed softly, like a considerate husband. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I was thoughtless. The first trimester is tough—more sensitive, moods all over. I shouldn’t have upset you.”

He wrapped his arms around me again, but this time his touch was light, careful, as if I were something fragile.

“Sleep. I’m right here.”

I didn’t move, letting him hold me while breathing in that faint perfume on his skin—the scent that belonged to Olivia.

I spent the night sleepless beside him, a vast abyss yawning between us.

Early the next morning, Daniel prepared breakfast as usual and saw me out the door.

Before I left, he pressed a kiss to my forehead, the picture of tender farewell.

“Rachel, be careful on the road. Come home early.”

I looked into his gentle eyes and felt only ice.

“Be careful on the road.” From his mouth, those four words were a knife in my chest.

He told me to be careful, while arranging the very “carelessness” that would kill me.

I didn’t go to the office. Instead, I took a cab to a private club Ethan Blake had sent me.

Ethan was already in the suite.

He wore a sharply tailored black suit, tall and poised on the sofa, a cup of tea in hand.

Three years had made him even more restrained and self-possessed, an aura of life-and-death authority between his brows that inspired fear and respect.

Simply by sitting there, he radiated power.

“Mr. Blake.” I crossed over and sat opposite him.

He lifted his gaze to me, pausing briefly before it settled on my still-flat belly.

“Pregnant?” His voice was low and magnetic, free of excess emotion.

“Mm. Three months.” I touched my stomach. She was my life—and the fuel for my revenge.

He set down his cup and leaned forward, fingers interlaced on the table, his eyes sharp enough to cut through anything.

“Daniel’s moving against you?” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

“Yes.” I told him everything I’d heard in the hospital hallway the day before—

Olivia’s pregnancy and the planned “car accident,” every detail a knife scraping across my heart.