Janelle woke up to the feeling of her bones being crushed.

Every muscle in her body ached as she opened her eyes to the sterile gray ceiling of the penthouse bedroom.

From the living room, she could hear Bryant's voice. He was speaking rapid, flawless French into his phone, ruthlessly tearing apart a European acquisition deal.

Janelle pushed herself up on her elbows.

A sharp, heavy cramp seized the lowest part of her abdomen. It felt like a heavy stone dragging her insides down.

All the blood drained from her face.

She threw off the silk duvet, her bare feet hitting the plush carpet. She sprinted to the en-suite bathroom, slamming the heavy door shut and twisting the lock.

She collapsed onto the toilet seat and pulled down her underwear.

A dark, rusty smear of blood stained the cotton fabric.

Her brain short-circuited. The world tilted on its axis.

Janelle clamped both hands over her mouth to trap the scream tearing up her throat. Her entire body shook so violently her teeth rattled together.

She reached out blindly and cranked the sink faucet to the maximum.

The roar of the water masked the ugly, broken sobs ripping from her chest.

She grabbed a washcloth, scrubbing herself clean with frantic, trembling hands. She threw on a pair of loose sweatpants and an oversized sweater from the spare closet.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, unlocked the door, and stepped out.

Bryant was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to her, his phone pressed to his ear as he barked orders at his legal team.

Janelle didn't make a sound. She moved like a ghost, slipping past the living room and out the front door.

The moment the elevator doors sealed her in, her knees buckled. Cold sweat drenched her spine.

She practically fell out of the building, waving down a passing taxi and giving the driver Dr. Finch's address.

In the back of the cab, she wrapped both arms around her stomach, rocking back and forth.

Please, she begged silently. Please don't leave me.

The taxi screeched to a halt. Janelle threw a handful of crumpled twenty-dollar bills at the driver and ran into the clinic.

The receptionist took one look at her ashen face and rushed her straight into an emergency examination room.

Dr. Finch hurried in, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. The room was dead silent, save for the sharp clinking of metal instruments on the tray.

Janelle stared at the ceiling tiles, her heart pounding in her ears.

Dr. Finch removed his gloves and pulled up a stool. His face was grim.

"You are experiencing a threatened miscarriage, Janelle," he said flatly. "If you endure any more physical trauma or extreme emotional distress, you will lose this baby."

Janelle squeezed her eyes shut.

"I strongly advise you to notify your husband and admit yourself for bed rest," Dr. Finch added.

The word husband sent a violent tremor through her limbs. She shook her head frantically.

"He's in Europe," she lied, her voice cracking. "I can rest at home. Please."

Dr. Finch let out a heavy sigh. He wrote a prescription for a massive dose of progesterone.

Janelle walked out of the clinic clutching a brown paper bag full of pill bottles. She felt like a walking corpse.

The biting Manhattan wind slapped her face. She remembered the look in Bryant's eyes when he spoke of her mother. The pure, unadulterated hatred.

If Bryant found out about this baby, he wouldn't just be angry. He would destroy it.

A reckless, desperate thought took root in her mind. She needed to know for sure. She needed to test his absolute bottom line before she risked everything to run.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stared at Bryant's name on the screen. The terror in her eyes slowly hardened into cold resolve. She knew that despite the violent incident in the penthouse today, the ironclad rules of their twisted marriage dictated she had to return to the Long Island main estate by nightfall. If she didn't show up, his retaliation against her remaining family would be swift and merciless.

The Uber dropped Janelle off at the sprawling Whitaker estate in Long Island just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

She hurried up the grand staircase to her walk-in closet and shoved the brown paper bag of progesterone pills deep into the lining of an old suitcase.

A sharp knock on the door made her jump.

"Madam," the butler's voice called out. "Mr. Whitaker is waiting for you in the dining room."

Janelle pulled a thick cashmere sweater over her head, hoping the loose fabric would hide the rigid tension in her posture.

She walked into the dining room. The mahogany table stretched out like a runway.

Bryant sat at the far end, slicing into a rare steak. Blood pooled on his white porcelain plate.

Janelle sat down. The smell of the seared meat and garlic hit her nose, triggering a violent wave of nausea.

She grabbed her crystal goblet and chugged the ice water, forcing the bile back down her throat.

The only sound in the cavernous room was the scrape of Bryant's silver knife against his plate.

Janelle took a shallow breath. She dug her fingernails into her thighs under the table.

"A girl I went to college with just had a baby," she said, forcing her voice to sound casual.

She watched his face carefully. "What do you think about kids?"

Bryant's knife stopped moving.

The temperature in the room plummeted. The air grew so thick it was hard to breathe.

He slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers, cold and dead as a shark's.

Bryant dropped his knife. He reached for the crystal decanter and poured a glass of red wine, filling it to the brim.

He stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table, and walked slowly toward her.

He slammed the wine glass down right in front of her. Red liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth.

"Drink it," he commanded.

Janelle stared at the dark red liquid. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"I... I don't want to drink tonight," she stammered.

Bryant scoffed. He leaned down, planting both hands on the armrests of her chair, trapping her completely.

He lowered his face until his lips were inches from her ear. His voice was a lethal whisper.

"The Wheeler family has dirty blood running through its veins," he hissed. "You are not fit to carry a Whitaker."

Janelle stopped breathing.

"If you ever get pregnant," Bryant continued, his words slicing into her like a scalpel, "I will strap you to a table and watch the doctor scrape that bastard out of you myself."

All the color drained from Janelle's face. Her pupils dilated in pure horror.

The last fragile sliver of hope she had been clinging to shattered into dust.

Bryant saw her frozen state. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, grabbed her jaw with one hand, and forced the rim of the wine glass against her lips.

"Drink," he ordered.

Cold wine spilled down her chin. Janelle choked, forced to swallow a mouthful of the bitter alcohol.

The liquid burned her throat. She shoved his chest with both hands and doubled over, coughing violently.

The wine glass slipped from her fingers. It hit the Persian rug with a dull thud, the red stain spreading like fresh blood.

Bryant stood up, adjusting his cuffs with perfect, terrifying calm. He looked down at her pathetic, coughing form with absolute disgust.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room.

A minute later, the roar of his car engine faded down the driveway.

Janelle slid off the chair and collapsed onto the wine-soaked rug. She curled into a tight ball, wrapping both arms around her stomach.

Tears poured down her face, soaking into the wool fibers.

She bit her own lip until it bled, making a silent vow to the life inside her. He will never touch you. I will die first.