The night I came home from the hospital after my ninth miscarriage was the night of the Thorne family foundation's annual charity gala.

My husband, Vincent Thorne, found me on the terrace.

In front of me, three champagne flutes stood empty.

His gray-blue eyes, usually so calm and self-possessed, were bloodshot, and his voice was rough. "Cora, the doctor warned you. Your uterine wall is paper-thin. You can't drink another drop."

I ignored him.

Slowly, deliberately, I took three more glasses and filled them to the brim.

I pushed one toward him.

The second, I slid in front of his adopted daughter, Kathleen Vance, who stood behind him looking angelic in a white, custom-designed gown.

The last glass, I lifted, watching Vincent through the shimmering liquid. I smiled.

There was no warmth in my smile, only the chilling certainty of an ending.

"Come."

"Let's raise a glass to my nine children who were never born."

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1

The smash of a champagne flute drew Vincent to the terrace.

"Everyone, out!"

His voice was quiet, but it held the unmistakable authority of a man in charge. The few guests who had been trying to console me exchanged uneasy glances before quietly slipping away, leaving the three of us alone.

"What in God's name are you trying to do?"

Vincent stared at me, his eyes filled with pain and confusion, as if I were some unreasonable madwoman.

Behind him, Kathleen Vance stood in her pristine white gown.

Her long hair spilled over her shoulders as she looked at me timidly, her eyes already red-rimmed.

I leaned nonchalantly against the railing, swirling the champagne in my glass.

"Your dear daughter seems so concerned about my 'delicate condition'."

"Well, I'll just have a few more drinks and give her something to really be concerned about."

The color drained from Kathleen's face, and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Cora, I didn't mean it like that..."

A cold smile touched my lips, my gaze pinning her in place as I enunciated each word, "Then what did you mean?"

"Hoping I'd die sooner so you could become your father's one and only 'child'? Or are you hoping to take my place as the mistress of the Thorne household?"

Vincent's face turned to ice. "Cora! You're drunk! What nonsense are you talking about?"

Kathleen began to sob, her whole body shaking. "Dad, please don't blame Cora. It's all my fault!"

"I shouldn't have let the doctor tell her that her body might never..."

"Kathleen, shut up!" Vincent snapped.

Kathleen flinched as if truly frightened, her pitiful gaze fixed on him, but not before a flicker of coldness crossed her eyes. "Dad, are you yelling at me?"

"I was just worried about Cora... Fine, I won't say any more. I'll wait for you outside..."

She ran off crying, the perfect picture of a wronged waif.

Vincent took a deep breath, walked over, and knelt on one knee before me, taking the wine glass from my hand.

His fingertips brushed my palm, a warmth I had once cherished.

"Please, stop making a scene. Let's go home."

"Did you hear what she said? She was cursing me, saying I'll never be able to have children!" I shook his hand off.

"She's young and doesn't know any better. I spoiled her. You're the adult here, Cora. Don't stoop to her level."

A laugh burst from my lips, echoing across the empty terrace, sharp and desolate.

"Doesn't know any better?"

"She hasn't 'known any better' for five years. In those five years, I've had nine miscarriages."

"And you're telling me now, Vincent, that she just doesn't know any better?"

The composure on his face crumbled.

He tried to embrace me, his voice raspy.

"I'm sorry... I failed to protect you."

I was smiling, but my eyes were red, and my voice trembled.

"But you seem to forget who knelt and begged me, promising me a home!"

"You seem to forget who swore he would protect me and our children with his life!"

He pulled me into a crushing embrace, the force so strong it felt like he wanted to merge me into his very bones.

"It was me. I'm sorry... Trust me one more time, Cora. Just one last time, please? We'll get you the best treatment. Medical technology is so advanced now..."

I shoved him away, my expression hardening as I turned toward the exit.

"Vincent, it's her or me."

"If she is still in this house tomorrow, you will never see me again."

The next morning.

When I returned home, the first thing I saw was the family doctor and a nurse.

Kathleen Vance was sitting on the sofa while the nurse prepared an injection.

Her face lit up when she saw me.

"Good morning, Cora! Dad was so worried about my stress levels, he had the doctor give me your special vitamin injections. The expensive, custom-blended ones."

I froze. Ice flooded my veins, extinguishing the last flicker of hope inside me.

My body was incredibly weak from the string of miscarriages. Those injections were specially formulated for me, prohibitively expensive, and incredibly rare.

In five years, Vincent had never once contacted the family doctor himself.

Today, he had personally arranged all of this for his precious adopted daughter.

Using my injections.

"Cora, you're back?"

Kathleen held a glass of juice, watching the nurse unwrap the syringe with a sweet smile.

"Dad said my health is the most important thing, so he arranged for the doctor to come over first thing this morning."

She raised her glass to me. "Want some?"

Yesterday's weeping mess was now playing the lady of the house.

Vincent sat in the armchair, reading the newspaper without lifting his gaze, his casual demeanor a silent, crushing rejection of my ultimatum.

"You're back. There's breakfast in the kitchen."

Did he think last night was a joke?

Or had he already made his choice: to abandon me and indulge his precious daughter?

I said nothing, digging my nails into my palm, the sharp pain a welcome anchor to reality.

My expression was blank as I pulled an invitation to an art exhibition from my bag and slowly tore it to shreds.

I had planned for us to go together to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary.

I turned and slipped into the study to make a call.

"Elias... I need you to do something for me."

After hanging up, I turned to leave.

From behind me, I heard Kathleen's saccharine whine.

"I already tried to make peace with Cora, why is she still throwing a tantrum..."

"Whatever. Dad arranged this specially for me. It's only natural for her to be jealous."

I didn't go back to our bedroom. I went straight to a vacant penthouse apartment I owned.

On that humiliating morning, I made my decision.

I'm letting you go, Vincent.

You and your precious daughter can have a wonderful life together.

In the afternoon, Vincent's assistant delivered a large, flat package.

He said Vincent had won the piece at an auction, hoping it would cheer me up.

It was his usual tactic: using expensive gifts to paper over problems, to buy my forgiveness.

In front of the assistant, I opened the package with a blank expression.

Then, without a word, I walked to the apartment's trash chute and dropped the priceless artwork right in.

A loud, splintering crash echoed from below, a sound of absolute finality.

The assistant's face went ashen.

It was late when Vincent finally came to the apartment.

I was on the sofa, calmly flipping through a well-worn parenting magazine.

He was seething, his voice an immediate accusation.

"Do you hate me that much?"

"Do you have to throw my feelings back in my face like this? That was a collectible worth millions!"

I didn't even look up from the page. I just took out my phone and dialed a number.

When the call connected, I put it on speaker.

A steady male voice came through.

"Miss Maxwell, have you made your decision?"

I watched Vincent's face turn deathly pale and smiled.

"Elias, I've made my decision."

"I accept your terms."

"And I agree to your terms. As my private investigator, you will have full authority to investigate my family's affairs and my medical records from the past five years."

All the color drained from Vincent's face.

He stared at my phone as if the calm male voice on the other end was some monster invading his territory.

"Let him get involved? What does that mean? You don't trust me?"

I laughed, closing the magazine and rising to look him straight in the eye.

"Vincent, do you really think I'm in the mood to play some petty game of tit-for-tat with you?"

He looked wounded, as if he had completely missed the point.

"Then what are you so angry about?"

I almost laughed out loud.

How absurd.

I was being tortured to the brink of insanity, my children were dying one by one, and he had no idea what I was angry about.

I ignored him and spoke to Elias Cole on the phone.

"You can bring the items up now."

With that, I hung up and went to open the door.

A moment later, Elias walked in, carrying a file folder.

He gave a polite nod to the ashen-faced Vincent.

Then he handed the folder and a lab report to me.

"Miss Maxwell, the conclusion is clear."

"This custom-scented oil contains a high concentration of Mifepristone. Long-term inhalation can cause uterine contractions in pregnant women, leading directly to miscarriage."

He paused, then continued.

"I advise an immediate and thorough toxicological screening of all items you regularly come into contact with."

"Until you have the truth, do not blindly trust anyone."

With that, he gave a slight bow. "I'll take my leave. Please call me if you have any further questions."

The click of the door shutting seemed to strip away Vincent's last shred of pretense.

I tossed the report and the evidence bag onto the coffee table in front of him.

Inside was an opened bottle of the "custom-scented oil" Kathleen had given me for my birthday, claiming it would help me relax and sleep.

"Vincent, your family owns a pharmaceutical conglomerate."

"Are you telling me you have no idea what this does to a woman trying to conceive?"

He was silent for so long the air felt frozen. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw.

"Kathleen... she wouldn't know about this."

"She's just a child. She probably saw you were stressed and bought some artisanal product online to help you relax... She was scammed."

I cut him off, my voice sharp and piercing.

"Enough!"

"Vincent, don't you get it? She is killing my children! Your own flesh and blood!"

"And you are her enabler!"

He looked at me in disbelief. "What are you talking about? How could Kathleen... She's so innocent."

I laughed.

"Right. An innocent child who brings me these 'special gifts' every single time I get pregnant."

"An innocent child who hides and giggles after I miscarry."

"Vincent, it's been five years and nine times. How much longer are you going to lie to yourself?"

He recoiled as if I'd struck him, taking an involuntary step back.

"The day we lost our third child, where were you?"

"You were at the hospital with her. Because she saw a drop of blood, got 'traumatized,' and had a 'panic attack' that required your comfort."

A look of shame and pain crossed his face.

"She... she was in a really bad state. The doctor said it could be life-threatening..."

I waved my hand dismissively.

"Enough. I don't want to hear it."

"Don't forget, she's not your blood. She's just an orphan you took in."

He fell silent, his expression unreadable.

"I know."

"But please, don't think so maliciously of her. After all... she's called me 'Dad' for ten years."

A bitter laugh escaped me, and I shoved him away.

"Get out."

To my astonishment, he seemed relieved. He moved closer, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

"I know you're angry. I'm heartbroken, too."

"It's my fault. I've neglected you."

His voice softened, his warm breath fanning across my neck.

"I'll talk to her. I'll tell her to be more careful, not to give you these kinds of things anymore."

"Don't be angry, okay? We'll have more children."

He was an expert at using that gentle tone to smooth everything over.

But just as I was about to speak, Vincent's phone rang.

"Kathleen" was flashing on the screen.