Four years ago, I met Joseph in a bar. I was a singer by night and a waitress by day, taking whatever shifts I could get after my parents died within months of each other—an accident and an illness that left me orphaned and drowning in debt before I even understood how cruel the world could be.

The bar was loud, expensive, and unforgiving in ways only money could afford. Crystal glasses clinked beneath low golden lights, and the music was just soft enough to invite secrets.

Men flirted without fear of rejection. Women judged with smiles sharpened by diamonds. Everyone wanted something.

It wasn’t a place meant for girls like me. But the owner was my godfather.

He’d taken me in after my parents died.

Joseph came in every night for weeks. He sat at the far end of the counter, nursing glass after glass, eyes hollow, grief clinging to him like a shadow. He didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile. Just drank.

Eventually, he talked. He told me his wife had left him. Danica. Said her name like it still burned. Said she’d betrayed him. Said he didn’t know how to breathe without her.

I listened.

I was still a virgin then—naive, careful, untouched in ways I didn’t even realize were rare. When Joseph started waiting for my shifts, walking me home, bringing me food because he said I looked too thin, I thought it was love.

When he held my hand, I shook.

When he kissed me, I believed.

A year later, when he asked me to marry him, I said yes because I thought I had finally been chosen.

He gave me everything—or so I thought.

A house. Clothes. Security. A name.

What I didn’t know was that I was a plan.

A placeholder. Someone to occupy the space until Danica came back.

The marriage was fake.

So now, lying in a hospital bed with my body stitched together and my son taken from me, I asked myself the only question that mattered.

Where would I go?

I had no family. No protection. No allies.

And they were going to kill me.

The thought didn’t make me cry.

It made something inside me snap.

They could take my dignity. My marriage. My body.

But they would not take my son.

My gaze drifted to the television mounted on the wall, the volume low. A familiar face filled the screen—sharp suit, cold eyes, a headline scrolling beneath.

MAXON BLACKWELL — HEIR TO BLACKWELL CORPORATION

My breath caught.

An acquaintance. A dangerous one.

Years ago, before Joseph, Maxon had offered me marriage—not out of love, but power. I’d been terrified. I’d said no.

Now, I realized something with terrifying clarity.

I needed him.

My hand shook as I grabbed my phone and dialed the number I’d never deleted.

He answered on the second ring.

“Paula?” His voice was amused. “You’re finally calling me back, huh? What—regretting marrying him instead of me?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “So how about you marry me in five days?”

Silence.

Then a soft chuckle. “That sounds nice. Only if you do something for me.”

My heart pounded. “What?”

“Steal Joseph’s proposal,” Maxon said calmly. “That multibillion-dollar pitch he’s been working on. Get me the details, and then we’ll talk.”

I swallowed. “Deal.”

I ended the call—and froze.

Joseph was standing in the doorway.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “What deal? Who were you talking to?”

I forced a shaky smile. “The bar manager. He asked if I could sing again.”

His face darkened instantly.

“No,” he snapped. “You will not sing.”

“I—”

“What would people say if they learned my wife was a singer in a bar?” he shouted. “Are you insane? Didn’t I tell you not to do it? What else do you need when I am giving you everything? Or is this about fucking other guys?”

Something broke in me.

“I only ever fucked you!” I screamed. “What about you? You’ve been fucking your ex-wife since she came back!”

The slap echoed.

I collapsed against the bed, sobbing.

The door opened again. Danica walked in holding flowers.

“Joseph?” she said softly. “Are you insane? Why would you slap your wife?”

She came closer, feigning concern. “I’m sorry,” she murmured sweetly. “I came to apologize. I didn’t mean for him to leave you when you were dying… but I just have no one else, so I called him.”

She thrust the bouquet into my arms.

The flowers were white like for a funeral.

“I don’t need your apology,” I said hoarsely, shoving them away.

Jana stormed in. “Enough! How rude can you be when she is apologizing?” She turned to Joseph. “Lock her in. Don’t let her see the child until she learns how to be nice.”

“No—please,” I begged. “My son—”

The door slammed.

Locked. I tried to get up. The pain was unbearable. I collapsed, crying until my throat burned.

Joseph returned later, soft again, his voice suddenly gentle enough to make my skin crawl.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stroking my hair as if he hadn’t shattered me hours earlier. “I didn’t mean it. I was just mad because you’re working again when you don’t need to.”

I stayed still. Silent. Watching.

He set a tray on my lap—food arranged too neatly, water poured and waiting.

“Eat,” he said calmly. “Then I’ll let you see the baby.”

My chest tightened. “My baby?”

“Finish this,” he replied, nudging the glass closer.

My fingers closed around it—and I noticed everything. The faint bitter smell beneath the antiseptic scent of the room. The way the water wasn’t cold, even though it should have been. The way Joseph didn’t drink from it first.

And the memory came back, sharp and undeniable.

So how long will it take for her to die once you administer the pills in her drink?

My pulse thundered. I lifted the glass halfway, my hand trembling, my breath shallow. I needed him to believe I would comply. I needed him close.

Then my grip loosened.

The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered against the floor.

Water splashed everywhere, soaking the sheets, the tray, my gown.

For a split second, Joseph just stared.

Then his face twisted—rage breaking through the mask.

“Damn it,” he snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

“I—I’m sorry,” I whispered, shrinking back, clutching my stomach like a reflex. “My hands—”

He stood abruptly, jaw clenched, eyes dark with frustration.

“You’re useless,” he spat.

Then before I could say a word, someone screamed Danica’s name outside, and then he left me again. Alone.

The first time they let me leave the room, my legs nearly gave out.

I clutched the wall as I stepped into the hallway, my body still weak, my abdomen aching with every movement. But none of that mattered.

Pain was irrelevant compared to the single thought burning through my mind.

My son.

I followed the sound of soft voices, of cooing and laughter, down the corridor toward the nursery. My heart pounded harder with every step. I imagined his face—tiny, fragile, mine. I imagined holding him, breathing him in, proving to myself that he was real and that I hadn’t suffered for nothing.

I rounded the corner. And my heart shattered.

Danica was standing by the glass, cradling a baby in her arms.

My baby.

She rocked him gently, her face glowing with a softness I had never once seen directed at me. She looked comfortable. Natural. Like she belonged there.

I stumbled forward. “No…”

Danica tilted her head, smiling down at him. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to name him?” she asked lightly, turning toward—Joseph.

He stood beside her, relaxed, one hand resting on the glass like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Something inside me snapped.

“Of course not.”

They both turned.

My voice came out louder than I intended, sharp with desperation. “He is my son. Mine. What are you trying to say?”

Danica’s eyes widened slightly, but it wasn’t fear—it was calculation.

“Paula,” she said gently, as if speaking to a child. “You’re misunderstanding—”

“I’m not,” I said, my chest heaving. “Give him to me.”

Joseph sighed. “You’re overreacting.”

“Let me hold my son,” I demanded, stepping closer. “Please.”

He stepped in front of Danica instinctively, blocking me.

“Not yet,” he said. “You’re not okay. You’re still recovering.”

“That’s my son,” I cried. “Don’t take him away from me!”

Danica tightened her grip around the baby, her expression hardening for just a second before smoothing again.

Jana appeared beside them, her face twisted with disdain. “If you keep acting like this,” she said coldly, “you will not have him back.”

I shook my head violently. “You can’t do this. I’m his mother.”

Joseph rubbed his temples. “This is probably stress,” he said to Jana. “Postpartum. She’s not thinking clearly.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “No—please—Joseph—”

“Maybe it’s better,” he continued calmly, “to keep her in the ward for a while.”

“No!” I screamed. “Please! Please don’t do this!”

But it was already happening. Two orderlies grabbed my arms. I thrashed weakly, sobbing, reaching for my son as Danica turned away, shielding him from my sight.

“Please,” I begged. “I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. Just let me hold him once.”

No one listened. They dragged me down the hallway as my cries echoed off sterile walls. The door slammed shut behind me, locking me in.

Joseph stood outside for a moment.

“Just stay here for a while,” he said softly. “Okay?”

Then he walked away.

The days blurred together.

I begged the nurses. Pleaded. Promised anything.

One of them—young, nervous—finally took pity on me and let me borrow her phone.

My hands shook as I opened the news.

There it was.

RIVERA HEIR INTRODUCED TO THE WORLD

Photos filled the screen.

Joseph stood at the center, polished and composed, a proud smile fixed in place as cameras flashed around him. Beside him was Danica—elegant, calm, her hand resting possessively on the baby cradled against her chest.

My son. She held him like she had always been the one to carry him. Like the world had been waiting for her.

The headline called her the mother. She stood beside him like a wife. Like she had never left. Like she had always belonged there.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

I remembered every time I had asked Joseph why he never wanted to introduce me to the media. Why I was never allowed to attend public events, never photographed, never named.

It’s for your protection, he had said.

The media is cruel, he had warned. I want to keep you safe.

Lies.

Protection hadn’t been for me.

It had been for them.

There was no announcement of their divorce because, to the world, there had never been a marriage about me worth mentioning. No acknowledgment of me because I was never meant to exist beyond the shadows.

I was temporary. Disposable.

A womb with a pulse.

My vision blurred as the truth settled into my bones with terrifying clarity.

My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall, clutching the phone to my chest as my breath came in shallow, broken gasps.

That same day, they told me I was being discharged.

Joseph came to collect me like nothing had happened. He wore concern like a well-practiced costume, his hand warm against my elbow as he guided me toward the car.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road. “It was better for you to stay there. You were… unstable.”

I stared out the window, the city blurring past. “My son,” I whispered. “Can I see him now?”

He sighed, as if burdened by my question. “He’s with Danica for now. The doctors said you’re too stressed. Too volatile. It wouldn’t be good for the baby because you might hurt him. It must be the effect of C-section.”

It was a lie. But I didn’t argue.

I nodded.

At home, the house felt foreign. Empty. Every room echoed with absence. No crib. No toys. No proof that I had ever been a mother.

Joseph left me alone not long after, saying he had work to do.

The moment the door closed, I moved. I went to his study first.

Drawers. Files. Safes I’d watched him open enough times to memorize the codes. Contracts. Proposals. Financial projections stamped CONFIDENTIAL.

The proposal. The one Maxon wanted.

My hands shook as I scanned and photographed every page, every signature, every sealed agreement that could burn Joseph’s empire to the ground.

When I was done, I locked the study exactly as I found it.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, and sent the files.

One message: Save me. Now.

I woke up to pain so sharp it stole my breath. The moment I tried to move, nausea surged violently through me and my vision blurred. A broken sound tore from my throat before I could stop it.

“Ah—”

I looked down. The sheets beneath me were soaked in red.

For a second, my mind went blank, refusing to understand what my eyes were seeing. Then panic crashed into me all at once. My hands shook as I pressed them against my abdomen. Heat. Wetness. A burning sting that made my entire body seize.

My incision throbbed violently, swollen and tight, as if it were tearing open from the inside.

“I need help,” I whispered, my throat dry. Louder this time. “Help! Please—someone!”

No answer. The room was eerily silent.

Dizziness washed over me as I reached for the call button beside the bed—nothing. My heart pounded wildly. My phone. I needed my phone.

I forced myself upright, biting down on a scream as pain ripped through my stomach. My legs trembled violently as I slid off the bed, blood dripping down my thighs and staining the floor beneath me.

With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone and dialed Joseph.

“Joseph,” I sobbed into voicemail, my voice barely holding together. “I’m bleeding. Please—something’s wrong.”

I wrapped my robe tightly around myself and staggered into the hallway, clinging to the wall as each step sent agony crashing through my body.

Halfway down the stairs, I heard it.

A cry. My heart stopped.

I followed the sound into the living room—and froze.

My baby was lying on the couch. He was crying helplessly, his tiny face scrunched up, his fists clenched tightly as his cries grew more frantic by the second. No nanny. No maid. No one.

“Oh my God,” I gasped.

Ignoring the pain, I rushed forward and scooped him into my arms, clutching him tightly to my chest as tears streamed down my face.

“Shh… shh, Mommy’s here,” I whispered desperately, rocking him. “I’m here. Please don’t cry.”

But my hands were shaking too much. My body felt weak and unstable. My breath came out ragged and uneven.

“What are you doing?!” Jana’s voice sliced through the room. She stormed toward me, her face twisted in fury. “Are you insane? Why is the baby crying like that?”

“I—I just found him here,” I said, my voice breaking. “No one was with him. He was alone—”

“Liar!” she snapped. “You’re the one who upset him. Look at you—you can’t even hold him properly.”

“I’m bleeding,” I cried, tears spilling freely now. “Please, something’s wrong with my incision. I need to go to the hospital.”

Before she could respond, hurried footsteps echoed behind her.

Danica rushed in. The moment her eyes landed on the baby in my arms, her expression changed instantly.

“Oh my God,” she cried. “The baby—he’s convulsing! What did you do to him?!” Danica shouted, panic etched perfectly across her face. “Why would you shake him like that?!”

“I didn’t!” I screamed. “I just picked him up—please, I swear—”

Joseph appeared then, his face already dark with anger.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“She hurt him,” Danica said immediately, snatching the baby from my arms. “I walked in and saw her shaking him. He was convulsing.”

“That’s not true!” I cried. “Joseph, listen to me. I’m bleeding. I need help. My C-section is infected.”

He didn’t even look at me.

“You can’t even take care of a baby properly,” he snapped. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t fit. It’s a good thing Danica will be the mother of our child.”

“I’m sick,” I pleaded as my knees buckled. “Please. I need a doctor. I’m bleeding so much—”

Joseph was already barking orders. “Call the doctor. Get the car ready. Take the baby now.”

They rushed past me.

I sank onto the couch, shaking uncontrollably, watching as they disappeared with my child.

So I called a taxi.

The hospital lights blurred as they wheeled me in. Voices overlapped. Someone pressed hard against my abdomen. The pain was unbearable.

When I came to, everything was white. My body felt heavy. Numb. I couldn’t move.

Voices floated above me—distant but familiar.

Joseph.

“…kill her now,” he said calmly. “Just say she died from excessive blood loss.”

Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

For a moment, I thought this was death. Then the pain returned.

My fingers twitched. My eyelids fluttered.

I sucked in a shallow breath.

Light burned through my lashes.

“Paula.”

I forced my eyes open. Maxon sat beside my bed.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, relief flickering in his eyes. “Good. You scared the hell out of my doctors. You were close to dying. I got you out before Joseph’s doctor finished the job. You’re safe now.”

Panic surged. “My baby—where is my baby?”

“I know,” Maxon said calmly. “And we will get him back.”

Tears slid down my temples. “Please. Take me to him.”

“Not like this,” he said firmly. “If you go back now, they’ll kill you for real. Let’s get married first—then we take revenge.”

“Okay.”

The marriage happened three days later. Maxon placed a ring on my finger.

I spent the next days planning revenge. Then I heard about their weekend trip to the lakehouse, in which Joseph promised to give me once we have our baby. Yet, he took my baby from me!

That was perfect. I didn’t want to destroy them yet. I wanted to scare them first.

So, I prepared a package. Inside were copies of everything: documents proving Joseph’s affair, medical records, footage of my neglect, and the bloodstained white gown I’d been wearing the night they tried to kill me.

I had it delivered to the lakehouse. Then I watched as the delivery man handed the package to Joseph.

He was about to say something when the delivery man said, "Sir, it's a package from Miss Paula."