I Pretended to Carry His Child to Ruin Them

The silence in the penthouse wasn't empty; it was heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm. I set my keys on the marble console table, the clatter echoing too loudly in the foyer. My flight from Chicago—a cover story for a meeting with a forensic accountant in a dim basement office—had landed an hour ago. I was supposed to be exhausted. I was supposed to be the weary wife coming home to her loving husband.

Instead, I was a predator walking into a trap I had helped set.

I moved toward the master bedroom, my heels sinking into the plush runner. The door was ajar. A sliver of afternoon light cut across the floor, illuminating a chaotic scattering of wire hangers. My heart rate didn't spike. It held a steady, rhythmic thud against my ribs, a metronome counting down.

Inside, the walk-in closet looked like it had been looted. Sebastian’s side was stripped bare. The rows of Italian silk suits, the color-coordinated dress shirts, the collection of watches he loved more than he ever loved me—gone. The safe in the wall was wide open, a gaping black maw where my grandmother’s jewelry and our emergency cash used to be.

On the vanity, propped against my perfume bottles, sat a single sheet of cream stationery. I picked it up. The handwriting was rushed, the loops of his 'g's and 'y's jagged.

*Sky, I need space. I need to find myself. Don't look for me.*

"Find yourself," I whispered, my voice flat. "You'll be lucky if they find your teeth."

The front door chime startled me. I dropped the note, smoothed my expression into a mask of confusion and rising panic, and went to answer it. Talia stood there, holding two iced coffees and wearing a smile that died the second she saw my face.

"Sky?" She stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind her. "You're home early. What's wrong? You look like a ghost."

I didn't have to act much. The exhaustion was real; the adrenaline was just keeping it at bay. I led her to the bedroom without a word. Talia gasped when she saw the closet. She spun around, her eyes wide, pulling her phone from her purse.

"Oh my god, Sky. You haven't seen it yet, have you?"

"Seen what?" I asked, letting my voice tremble.

She hesitated, then turned the screen toward me. Instagram. A photo posted twenty minutes ago. Sebastian, wearing sunglasses and a grin that looked like freedom, standing on the tarmac next to a private jet. His arm was draped around a woman with platinum blonde hair and a dress that cost more than my first car. Izabella Wallace.

The caption read: *#NewBeginnings #FinallyFree.*

I sank onto the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands. Talia sat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, murmuring soothing nonsense about men being trash. Under the shelter of my palms, my eyes were dry. I was counting the seconds. The timestamp on the post confirmed he was already in the air. Perfect.

"I have to go to his mother's," I said suddenly, lifting my head. My eyes were wide, feigning a frantic desperation. "Mrs. Burns will know where he is. She has to."

"Sky, no," Talia warned. "That woman is a viper. Let me call the police first."

"No police," I insisted, grabbing my purse. "Not yet. I need to look her in the eye."

The drive to the Burns estate in Seattle was a blur of gray highway and drizzle. The house was a sprawling Victorian monstrosity that smelled of old money and mildew. I parked haphazardly in the driveway, ensuring the neighbors—Mrs. Gable specifically, who spent her days pruning roses and watching everyone else's business—were outside.

I stormed up the porch steps. Mrs. Burns opened the door before I could knock, her lip curled in a familiar sneer. She was wearing pearls and a cardigan, looking every inch the matriarch of a crumbling dynasty.

"Where is he?" I demanded, my voice shrill enough to carry to the street.

"Keep your voice down, you hysterical little girl," she hissed, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. "Sebastian is finally doing what's best for him. Getting away from a suffocating, inadequate wife."

"Inadequate?" I stepped closer, invading her space. "He stole from me! The safe is empty. My jewelry, the bonds—he took everything!"

"He took what was rightfully his!" Mrs. Burns spat, her face flushing a blotchy red. "He supported you for years!"

"I paid the mortgage!" I screamed, seeing Mrs. Gable pause with her shears two houses down. "I paid for this house! And now he's run off with that whore!"

Something snapped behind Mrs. Burns's watery blue eyes. The veneer of high society cracked. "Don't you dare speak about his choices. You drove him to it!"

She lunged. It was clumsy, a shove born of pure, unfiltered malice. Her hands hit my shoulders hard. I had anticipated it, but the force was real. I let my center of gravity shift, my heels slipping on the damp wood. I flailed, a performance of helplessness, and went backward.

The world spun. Wood, sky, concrete. My shoulder slammed into the railing, and then I was tumbling down the stairs. I hit the bottom landing with a sickening crunch. Pain, sharp and blinding, shot up my left arm. My head cracked against the pavement, and for a second, the gray sky went black.

I lay there, gasping, staring up at the porch. Mrs. Burns stood at the top, hand over her mouth, looking horrified not at my injury, but at Mrs. Gable running across the lawn screaming for help.

*Checkmate,* I thought, as the darkness finally pulled me under.

***

The smell of antiseptic woke me. The rhythmic beeping of a monitor. My left arm was a heavy plaster weight, and my head throbbed in time with my pulse. I opened my eyes to harsh fluorescent lights. Talia was in the chair beside the bed, her face pale.

"You're awake," she breathed, standing up. "Thank god. The doctors said it's a hairline fracture and a concussion."

Before I could answer, the door swung open. A nurse stepped in, looking nervous. Behind her was a man who looked like he was carved out of granite. He wore a cheap leather jacket and smelled of stale tobacco.

"Family only," Talia said sharply.

"I'm not family," the man rumbled. He stepped past the nurse, closing the door. "Name's Vincent Romano. I'm here about a debt."

My stomach tightened. This wasn't part of the plan. Or maybe it was—Sebastian's final gift.

"What debt?" I croaked, my throat dry.

Romano pulled a folded paper from his jacket. "Your husband. He borrowed one hundred large. Short term, high interest. Collateral was you."

He tossed the paper onto the bedspread. It was a loan agreement. My signature was scrawled at the bottom—a clumsy forgery, but good enough for a shark.

"He's gone," I whispered. "He left the country."

"I don't care where he is," Romano said, leaning over the bed rail. His eyes were dead, shark-like things. "The money is in your name, Mrs. Burns. You have thirty days. Or the next time you fall down some stairs, you won't wake up."

He turned and walked out, leaving the threat hanging in the sterile air.

Talia was shaking. "I'm calling the police. Right now."

"No," I said, my voice gaining strength. The fear I showed Romano evaporated the moment the door clicked shut. The pain in my arm was agonizing, but it was clarifying. It was fuel.

"Sky, he threatened your life!"

"He just gave me a motive," I corrected softly. I looked at Talia, my eyes hard. "Take a picture of my face. Get the bruises. Get the cast."

"Why?" Talia asked, her phone trembling in her hand.

"Insurance," I said, leaning back against the pillows. "If they want to play dirty, Talia, I'm going to show them exactly what happens when you drag someone through the mud."