When I woke up again, I was alone in a guest room at the seaside estate. Oscar was in the adjacent room, keeping vigil over Sloane.

When Marcus delivered the news with his usual condescension, I felt a void where my heart used to be. I dismissed him with a single, sharp gesture.

Once the room was quiet again, I took out my phone and checked the encrypted email from my father.

[Everything is ready. The private jet is on standby. We're waiting for you to come home.]

Attached was proof of a three-billion-dollar trust fund established for me by Beaumont Enterprises and the profiles of a 24/7 personal security team.

It was the full, formidable power of a top-tier financial conglomerate on display.

Staring at the documents, the first flicker of hope I’d felt in days ignited within me. Three more days. Just three more, and I’ll be free.

Just as I was tucking the phone away, the door pushed open. Oscar walked in.

I quickly blanked my phone screen.

Oscar's eyes narrowed. "What were you looking at? Why so jumpy?"

I turned my head away, refusing to meet his gaze. He walked to the bedside and reached out, as if to stroke my hair.

"Be a good girl next time, and you won't have to suffer like this."

A cold laugh escaped me. "I understand."

There would be no next time. In three days, I would take our child and go somewhere he could never find us.

I tried to push him away with my indifference, but he didn't leave. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and scooped up a spoonful of soup to feed me.

The spoon never reached my mouth. A clatter from the doorway made me flinch. Sloane was crumpled on the floor, looking up at Oscar with wide, tear-filled eyes. The fallen spoon’s contents had splashed across my arm, the skin instantly blistering.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to disturb you two. I just wanted to thank Clara for saving my life yesterday..."

Oscar immediately rushed to her side, helping her up. He then physically blocked the doctor who was moving to treat my burn.

"Check on her first!"

Watching his frantic state, I remembered our first vacation to the Maldives.

The yacht had an accident, and he’d pulled me from the water, ignoring his own broken ribs.

In that ramshackle island clinic, he’d given me the only oxygen mask.

He had gripped my hand and whispered, "Clara, you're more important than my life. If you die, I die too."

I had told my mother all of this. Though she’d had her doubts about me marrying into a family like the Ashfords, she had eventually relented.

Yet this man, who had once offered his life for mine, was now the one pushing me into the abyss, time and time again.

This disastrous marriage had cost my mother her life. And the root of it all was my inability to give him what he desperately wanted: a child, a legitimate heir for the Ashford family.

At first, bound by the terms of a family trust, he hadn't strayed. We’d tried every medical avenue together, a united front in our quest for a baby.

But as his brothers began producing heirs one by one, Oscar’s hope in me curdled into resentment.

The first time I caught him with another woman, I smashed every expensive thing in the hotel suite.

Back then, he would still hold me and apologize. But eventually, all that was left were his cold words:

"If you weren't barren, would I need to find other women?"

He waved a dismissive hand, his tone casual, as if I were a stranger. "Get out. Close the door on your way out."

In those days, the sight of a single, stark line on a pregnancy test would send me into a spiral of tears.

This marriage, once the envy of high society, had long been shredded by his coldness, his cruelty, and my mother’s death.

Now, pregnant at last, I was also, finally, awake.

I closed my eyes, feeling the searing pain on my arm and the faint, precious flutter of the small life inside my womb.

As I drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep, Oscar was still next door, comforting Sloane.

When I woke again, my arm was wrapped in a fresh bandage.

Oscar was sitting by the bed.

Our eyes met.

After a long silence, Oscar spoke. "Does it still hurt?"

I shook my head. "It won't hurt anymore."

He seemed to catch the double meaning in my words. His brow furrowed, and he gently stroked my bandaged arm.

"Don't worry. I'll hire the best burn specialist. It won't leave a scar."

With that, he got up, locked the door, and sat back down, picking up the spoon again.

I shoved his hand away. Hot soup splashed onto his custom Armani suit, leaving an ugly, spreading stain.

Oscar froze. The next second, he grabbed my wrist, his grip like steel, and pinned me against the headboard.

"Don't be like that, darling," he murmured, his voice a low growl.

His mouth crashed down on mine, a bruising, possessive kiss that tasted of rage. He was trying to devour me, to own me. I struggled, but the more I fought, the harder he pressed, crushing me against the headboard.

I don't know how much time passed before he finally pulled back, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth where I’d bitten him.

"Clara, I don't like being rejected. Don't let there be a next time."

I gasped for air, bile rising in my throat.

Just then, his phone rang. Oscar moved to decline the call, but I put a hand on his.

"Go ahead. I won't make a scene again."

Oscar paused, then answered his phone and walked out of the room. At the doorway, he glanced back.

"I'll have the doctor stay with you. Get some rest."

After the door closed, a shaky breath escaped me.

I pulled out my phone and looked at the flight information for tomorrow night. It was almost over.

Late that night, a text from Oscar lit up my screen.

[Sloane is having some complications. I have to stay with her tonight. You rest up. I'll come see you tomorrow.]

It was the longest message he had sent me in months. Scrolling up, our chat history was a monologue of my desperation.

[When are you coming home?]

[Are you coming back today?]

[Oscar, when on earth are you coming home?]

The girl who had once smiled so freely had twisted into this desperate creature. I didn't even recognize myself anymore.

I thought, maybe our downfall wasn't just Sloane's pregnancy, but also what this marriage had turned me into.

But it was almost over. I wouldn't cling to him anymore.

If I could just get through tonight and tomorrow, none of this would matter.

But Sloane clearly had other plans.

At midnight, she kicked my door open.

"You're actually pregnant, you bitch! I can't believe it. If I didn't have eyes and ears all over this hospital, Oscar would know by now."

In the dim light, her expression was a twisted mask of fury.

I immediately fumbled for the call bell and grabbed the fruit knife from the bedside table. But Sloane was faster.

She snatched the knife from my grasp, the tip pointing directly at my stomach.

Just as she lunged, the sound of Oscar's hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Sloane's face contorted. I scrambled for the door.

But she stuck out a foot, tripping me.

When I looked back, a triumphant, vicious smile spread across her face. Then, she picked up a shard from a shattered water glass and dragged it deeply across her own arm.

When the lights flashed on, blood was already soaking her white nightgown.

Oscar burst through the door, froze for a heartbeat, and then lunged toward her.

He pressed down on her wound, his voice trembling with panic.

"Doctor! Get a doctor in here, now!"

The scene descended into chaos. I was stunned. I never thought Sloane would be so ruthless to herself just to frame me.

Sloane leaned weakly in Oscar's arms, tears streaming down her face.

"I was just worried about Clara... I just wanted to see her. Why would she do this to me?"

"Oscar, I'm so sorry," she wailed. "I... I think I'm losing our baby... I'm so, so sorry..."

After the medical team whisked Sloane away, before I could utter a single word, Oscar grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to my feet.

His eyes were bloodshot. I had rarely seen him this out of control.

The last time was when business rivals had kidnapped me. When he saw the bruises on my body, he had nearly beaten them to death with his bare hands.

"Clara!" he roared.

His strength was immense. My feet left the floor, air crushed from my lungs.

Just as my vision started to spot, he suddenly let me go. I crumpled to the floor.

Instantly, a vicious cramp tore through my abdomen. A warm gush of blood flowed from between my legs, mingling with the drying splashes of Sloane's on the pristine floor.

I grabbed the cuff of his trousers, my last ounce of strength going into the plea:

"Get a doctor... I'm really... pregnant..."

"Pregnant?" Oscar sneered, looking down at me as if I were something vile he’d stepped in. "Clara, you're so desperate you've lost your mind."

He kicked my hand away and gripped my chin. "You think this is the end?"

"Clara, if Sloane's baby is gone, I will make you watch as I have one child after another with other women, until one of them finally gives birth to a true Ashford heir."

He hurled the words at me, a punishment a hundred times crueler than any physical blow, and stormed out without a backward glance.

All the doctors were with Sloane. It wasn't until the news came that her condition was "stable" that a nurse finally came to help me up from the pool of blood.

I grabbed her sleeve, pointed at my stomach, my voice a ragged whisper:

"Is the baby... still alive?"