The gavel struck with a resounding finality, sending tremors through my entire being.

“You are sentenced death penalty by the court, Mrs. Dionne Carté-Gadot.”

I'm fucking pregnant. I can't be!

A wave of cold dread crashed over me. My legs trembled as I shot up from my seat, eyes darting wildly around the courtroom. My breath hitched, my voice raw from hours of pleading. But it didn’t matter. The decision had been made.

“No—wait, please!” I cried out, but the officers were on me in seconds, gripping my arms like iron shackles.

I fought against their hold, but it was futile. The chains around my wrists clanked as I struggled, my vision blurring with unshed tears. My knees buckled beneath me, and the world around me dimmed in a cacophony of whispers, camera flashes, and the hollow echo of my own despair.

Then came the darkness.

Hours later, I found myself locked inside a city jail, awaiting my execution. The days blurred together, filled with sleepless nights, cold stone walls, and the suffocating weight of injustice. I was accused of massacring a group of farmers—men who had once worked for me before they spread lies and slander that ruined my name. But I hadn’t killed them. I had no blood on my hands, yet here I was, condemned to die.

I curled into myself on the tattered mattress, my hands cradling my stomach. I had been three months pregnant when they dragged me here.

“God, please,” I whispered into the darkness.

A voice pulled me from my despair.

“What’s your story?”

I turned to see a woman, another inmate, her eyes sharp with curiosity. I hesitated, then, with nothing left to lose, I told her everything. My trial. My ruined reputation. My husband’s betrayal. And now, my child’s uncertain fate.

Three weeks passed in excruciating limbo. Then, the torment began.

The other detainees saw me as nothing more than entertainment. They jeered, mocked, and, eventually, they struck. First, it was a shove. Then a punch. And then it became a daily occurrence.

One night, the pain in my abdomen became unbearable. I screamed, clutching my stomach as I collapsed onto the cold floor. Blood pooled beneath me. My baby—my innocent child—was gone. My fourth miscarriage.

Something inside me snapped.

I had lost too much. I refused to be broken any longer. The grief and anger hardened into steel, and I fought back. Every strike against me, I returned. Every taunt, I silenced. The guards punished me for my defiance, but I welcomed their blows. Pain no longer frightened me. I had lost everything.

Then, on the day of my execution, he appeared.

Francis Troillan.

A man dressed in an impeccable suit, his sharp gaze piercing through the bars of my cell.

“You’re an interesting woman,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes, too exhausted for riddles.

“What do you want?” My voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

He smirked.

“I want you to carry my child.”

A bitter laugh bubbled up from my throat.

“Are you insane? I’m scheduled to die in hours.”

His smirk widened.

“Not if you accept my offer. I can help you escape. But in return, you’ll be my surrogate.”

It was absurd. A cruel joke, surely. And yet, when I looked into his eyes, I saw something dangerous. Something real.

Desperation clawed at my chest. A chance. A chance to live. To take back what was stolen from me.

“Fine,” I rasped.

He inclined his head.

“Good choice.”

That night, I was granted my last meal—anything I wanted. A final mockery of kindness before death. I ate in silence, my mind racing.

Then, as if orchestrated by fate itself, chaos erupted.

Fire.

Screams filled the air as flames engulfed the prison. The smell of smoke and burning flesh choked the corridors. The gates burst open in the frenzy, and I ran in the middle of the chaos. I ran as if my life depended on it—because it did.

Through the thick smoke, I saw him. Francis, leaning casually against a sports car in the parking lot, as if this were nothing more than a business transaction.

“Get in,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, I did.

He drove like the devil himself was chasing us, and maybe he was. But we made it out. And for the first time in a long time, I breathed.

Weeks passed in the security of Francis’s mansion. I lived in the lap of luxury, yet I never forgot the cost of my freedom. I was bound to him now, a pawn in whatever twisted game he played.

But my mind was elsewhere. I needed to see my home. To know if anything of my old life remained.

The day I returned to my mansion, dread curled in my stomach. The gates were open. The front door ajar. Something was wrong.

I stepped inside, my pulse hammering. The air was thick with betrayal. And then I heard them.

Upstairs. In my bedroom.

My best friend, Sharon. And my ex-husband, Pierre Gadot.

I pressed myself against the doorframe, listening as Sharon’s voice drifted through the room, each word a dagger to my heart.

“Daddy, is there an update on your ex-wife? I heard she's pregnant for the fourth time. We should let her suffer a miscarriage again!"

My blood ran cold.

The walls of my world shattered, revealing the ugly truth beneath.

THEY DID THIS.

My breath hitched as the words sank in. My best friend. My ex-husband. The two people I had once trusted more than anyone had conspired against me.

I stepped back, feeling my stomach twist with a sickening churn of emotions. In my retreat, my elbow struck the edge of a glass vase—a priceless piece they had won at an auction. It wobbled, then crashed to the floor with an earsplitting shatter.

The room fell into stunned silence. Sharon’s eyes widened in shock. Pierre’s expression turned cold. And then, Sharon, standing just behind him, asked the inevitable question.

“Who helped you escape the prison?”

I ignored her. Although my focus was locked on her. My palm burned with fury before I even realized I had raised my hand and slapped her across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the room.

“Y-You betrayed me,” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “You were my best friend, Sharon.”

Sharon, clutching her cheek, let out a bitter laugh. “And you were blind, Dionne. You never saw the truth.”

She turned her gaze toward Pierre, and that was when the final blow landed. “Pierre never loved you. Our relationship started long before your marriage. It was all for your wealth—the inheritance your father left you.”

I felt my chest tighten, suffocated by the weight of betrayal. I turned to Pierre, hoping for denial, some desperate excuse. But he simply shrugged.

“She’s right,” he said, voice devoid of remorse. “You were just a means to an end, Dionne. And I never wanted a child with you. I only needed your fortune.”

I staggered back as if struck. My whole marriage, my life—it had all been a lie. Anguish welled up inside me, but before I could react, Pierre pulled out his phone.

He dialed with ease, his voice calm. “Hello? Yes. My ex-wife is here. She escaped prison. Send the police.”

Panic surged through me. My mind raced for an escape, but then—

BOOM.

An explosion rocked the house.

The ground trembled beneath us. Smoke filled the hallways, and the chandelier above shook violently. Fire erupted from the far end of the mansion, swallowing furniture and décor in its path.

Sharon screamed, clutching Pierre’s arm. “What the hell is happening?!”

The answer didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they ran, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the chaos.

My ears rang from the explosion, my body frozen. But before the flames could consume me, strong hands grabbed my wrist.

“Come on!”

Francis. His grip was firm, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight. He pulled me through the collapsing house, past burning debris, until we burst into the garden.

There, parked on the open lawn, was a sleek black helicopter.

We climbed in as the rotors roared to life. Just as the police sirens became audible in the distance, we lifted into the sky, escaping into the night.

Inside the helicopter, I stared at Francis, my mind still reeling.

“Why?” I asked breathlessly. “Why are you helping me? Is it really just because you want me to be your surrogate?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence stretched until the city lights blurred beneath us, fading into the darkness.

Half an hour later, we landed safely at his mansion.

Days passed in a strange, quiet lull. Francis offered me comfort—his presence steady, his words few but reassuring. And for the first time, I let myself breathe.

But curiosity gnawed at me. I needed to know more about the man who had risked so much for me.

One evening, I found the courage to ask.

“Who are you, really?”

Francis studied me for a long moment before exhaling deeply.

“I was once a Mafia Boss.”

My breath caught. He continued, his tone even, but laced with something distant.

“I built an empire—businesses, power, influence. But my family abandoned me when they found out I had cancer. They thought I was too weak to lead, so they cut me off. Left me with nothing.”

His eyes darkened, shadows of the past flickering across his face.

I felt a sharp pang in my chest. “Cancer?”

“Stage 2 Leukemia,” he confirmed. “And the treatments… they left me barren.”

He took off his wig.

The weight of his words settled over me. He had lost everything—just like I had. Without thinking, I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.

He didn’t pull away.

Over the next month, a strange routine formed. Francis, despite everything, treated me with care. He asked me to stay—to play the role of his wife. And while I never saw it as romantic, I honored his request. I took care of him when his health wavered, stayed by his side through the difficult nights.

I told myself it was just a temporary arrangement, just a means to survive.

But then, one day, he shattered that illusion.

Francis knelt before me, a ring in his hand.

“Marry me, Dionne.”

"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but strong enough to make Francis crumble with relief.

He smiled through the tears pooling in his eyes. "Thank you... Thank you. I don’t know how much time I have left, but this means everything."

It wasn’t love—not yet. It was mercy. A dying man begging for companionship in what he believed were his final days. And maybe, in some twisted way, I needed this too—to feel wanted, useful, and perhaps even capable of healing.

Weeks passed in quiet anticipation. Francis' team of private doctors put me through a series of tests. Good thing, Francis is smart enough to store a sperm before he got diagnosed by a deadly cancer. Despite my past miscarriages, the results were in my favor. I was still viable for surrogacy. The procedure was done with utmost secrecy and success. Life grew inside me—a life I hadn’t expected to carry, but one that would eventually change everything.

Soon after, Francis handed me a document. An NDA.

"You’ll need to change your appearance," he said carefully. "For your safety… and for mine. The business world wouldn’t take kindly to me marrying a convicted fugitive."

I stared at the paper for a long time, then signed it. I knew the old Dionne Carté had to die for me to live again.

Nine months passed in concealment. My body swelled with life. I stayed hidden in the countryside villa Francis owned, with only doctors and trusted staff around. When I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, we named him Frederick Troillan.

The moment I saw his eyes—so much like Francis'—I knew something in me had shifted. My body was tired, aching, but in the small, cooing bundle pressed against my chest, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: peace. He was perfect. He was untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Shortly after, I underwent the operation. A complete transformation. My reflection in the mirror no longer showed the woman who had wept in a jail cell or stood broken in a burning mansion.

I was Wayna Scott now. Every trace of Dionne had been erased—from the contours of my face down to the way I carried myself.

And then, I spent a few months in changing my behaviors and the way how I speak. I made sure that I mastered my new personality.

Francis, always true to his word, introduced me to the public as his fiancée a few months later. The media went wild. He became the face of resilience and mystery—the tycoon who’d found love again. Investors swarmed. His empire grew stronger.

Every magazine wanted a piece of our love story. We posed for press photos, smiled at galas, played the perfect couple. And while the world cheered, I remained haunted by the truth. I wasn’t just hiding from the law—I was hiding from myself.

One night, I was walking through the corridor to fetch a glass of wine when I heard him crying softly in his office. Without knocking, I stepped inside.

"Francis?"

He looked up, surprised, but didn’t try to hide his tears. I sat beside him, taking his hand.

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off. But I knew better.

Then came the words I never expected. “The doctors called. I’m now... cancer-free.”

DAMN!

Finally, our son can grow up with a Dad beside him.

Tears welled up in my own eyes. The weight he’d been carrying, the silent agony, the uncertainty—all of it vanished in that moment.

I felt something bloom inside me. Something I’d buried deep beneath layers of trauma and survival. I smiled and whispered, “I’m happy for you. I think… I think I’m starting to fall in love with you.”

We hugged each other tightly.

Francis didn’t hesitate. Days later, he began planning our wedding. He wanted it grand. Lavish. A celebration of survival, of rebirth.

Everything felt perfect—until it didn’t.

One afternoon, while Francis was in a heated discussion with the wedding organizer, his phone rang. He gestured for me to answer it.

“Hello?”

Silence. Then a raspy voice on the other end. "I know the truth. I know your fiancée's secret."

My blood turned to ice. I didn’t tell Francis. I couldn’t. Not yet.

NOT IN OUR UPCOMING SPECIAL DAY!

The voice haunted me for days. Who was it? What did they know? And most of all—what would they do with that information?

I threw myself into wedding preparations, pushing the call to the back of my mind. But doubt gnawed at me. The night before the ceremony, I finally confronted him.

“How did you know about me? That I was scheduled to be executed?”

He hesitated, then sighed. "I saw your case in the news. The murder of the farmers. Your face haunted every channel. I did my research, and I believed you were innocent. Once we’re married, I promise—I’ll help you find the real mastermind."

That promise lit a spark of hope in me. Maybe, finally, justice would be within reach. Maybe I wasn’t just running—I was heading toward something that could set me free.

The morning of the wedding arrived in a blur of silk, perfume, and nervous excitement. I wore a custom gown, my newly transformed face glowing in the soft morning light. The gown shimmered like moonlight, delicate lace brushing my ankles as I stepped into the limousine. I stared out the window, watching the city pass like a dream.

We arrived at the cathedral just past noon. Guests were already inside. The media waited outside, hungry for photos. Francis had spared no expense.

As the music began and I stepped into the aisle, I felt like I was walking toward redemption.

The church was vast—pillars climbing toward a golden dome, sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Every step I took echoed through the silence. Eyes turned to me. Whispers followed.

But just before the ceremony could begin, the church doors burst open.

Police in full gear swarmed the aisle. The music screeched to a halt. Gasps filled the air.

“Stop this,” the lead officer barked, stepping forward. “Ms. Dionne Carté, you are under arrest.”

The world tilted. My bouquet hit the marble floor.