Griffin swore he had to leave town for a sudden series of meetings—something about courting foreign investors in Tokyo. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead before he left, tracing the curve of my four-month bump like it was precious to him.

“Just three days,” he murmured with that easy smile of his. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”

I wasn’t planning on attending the Dusk Republic concert that night. But the baby always kicked when music played, like she was dancing inside me. So I decided to go. No friends. No announcement. Just me and the tiny rhythm in my belly.

I was actually having fun—laughing with strangers, humming along—until the stadium screens swept over the audience. The camera zoomed. Faces flashed. And then my entire world stalled.

Griffin Mercer.

Front and center.

Not alone.

He was holding someone—clinging, really. A woman with glossy, dark hair, wearing a red dress painted onto her skin. Celeste Ashcroft. His HR director. The same woman who once joked, “Chill, Abigail. Married men aren’t my thing.”

The screen froze on them mid-movement: her head thrown back in a laugh, his face tucked into the crook of her neck like it belonged there. Like it had belonged there for a long time.

My breath vanished. Just… disappeared.

Then Celeste noticed the camera. Her grin faltered. Griffin turned, followed her gaze, and the instant he recognized the lens, he jerked her down, dragging her out of the frame. Vanishing like fugitives.

My fingers went numb.

No. No, that couldn’t be him. Maybe someone who looked like him? A trick of the lights?

My denial shattered when I dialed his number.

Once—no answer.

Twice—straight to voicemail.

The third time, he finally picked up.

“Kind of busy right now,” he said. No music in the background, no crowds. “I’m in a discussion with clients. I’ll call you later, babe.”

The call disconnected.

Clients.

In Tokyo.

While I was staring directly at him on a screen the size of a building.

Tears blurred the neon lights around me, smearing the glowing sign that declared FOREVER LOVE in oversized pink letters. I walked out of that arena without thinking, stepping into rain so cold it soaked through my dress and into my bones. My little flats slapped against the pavement in echoes. I didn’t bother with an umbrella. Didn’t bother wiping my cheeks. Everything inside me felt split open anyway.

The same scene kept looping in my head—Griffin’s arms around her, holding her the way he used to hold me.

By the time I reached our mansion’s gate, I was soaked, shaking, and barely upright. I lifted my hand toward the intercom—

A grip locked around my waist.

I didn’t even have time to scream before a black SUV screeched to a stop beside me. The door flung open. Hands—gloved, brutal—yanked me inside. I thrashed, kicked, begged. The door slammed shut.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

---

When consciousness clawed its way back, my skull felt split in half. My mouth tasted like metal and chemicals. Instinctively, my hands went to my stomach.

Flat.

Flat.

No curve.

No warmth.

No life.

Something inside me cracked.

My wrists were tied to metal rails, the restraints biting into my skin. My thighs were smeared with dried blood—thick, crusted, monstrous. I could tell the violence had happened long before I woke.

The room was dim, its air damp and rotten. Concrete walls. No windows. No sign of mercy. Just shadows and the sour smell leaking from a corner I couldn’t bear to look at.

Until I did.

A black plastic bin.

Lid half open.

And inside… a pale shape.

A tiny limb.

A curled fist the size of a plum.

My daughter.

My scream tore itself out of my body. I thrashed, pulling at the restraints until my wrists burned, sobbing so hard it felt like my ribs were fracturing.

The door creaked open.

A man in a stained gown stepped inside. His gloves were still on, stiff with blood.

“We had to remove it,” he said in a voice far too calm. “Letting a female Mercer grow was a liability.”

The world tilted. I couldn’t get a single word past the knot of horror in my throat.

Another door opened.

Griffin.

“Jesus—Abigail!” he gasped, eyes widening as if he were the victim. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Your phone was dead. I just flew in from Singapore.”

He shot the doctor without hesitation. A single, practiced movement. The body collapsed beside the bed. Then Griffin rushed to me, gathering my face in his palms, kissing my forehead even though my skin was sticky with blood.

“You’re okay now,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. We’ll get through this. Just breathe.”

I looked past his shoulder.

At the bin.

At the tiny hand that would never curl around my finger.

And everything aligned with terrifying clarity.

Griffin wasn’t my savior.

He was the one who signed the order.

---

I don’t know how much time slipped by after that. Blurred days. Heavy sedation. A fog of pain and numb sorrow. Eventually, while lying half-awake, I heard voices outside the door.

Griffin.

Damian—his right-hand man.

They spoke like I wasn’t there. Like I wasn’t a person.

“You’re sick, Griffin,” Damian hissed. “You were at a concert with Celeste while your pregnant wife was being butchered. And you paid that psycho to get rid of her daughter—your daughter.”

My blood iced.

Griffin didn’t even bother denying it. “It was necessary. Celeste is carrying my son now. That girl Abigail was carrying? Useless. Couldn’t be an heir.”

My stomach lurched. My vision swam.

“A boy,” he continued coolly. “That’s what the Mercer line needs. My grandfather was explicit—no male heir, no future. He built everything from scratch; he wasn’t about to let some weak firstborn daughter inherit anything.”

Damian swore under his breath. “You didn’t need to sterilize her. You didn’t need to destroy her life.”

Griffin shrugged—actually shrugged. “I couldn’t risk complications. Celeste and I… we’ve been real for a long time. Before she ran from it. Abigail was just someone I pitied—a convenient wife to appease my grandfather after she saved his life.”

Convenient.

That’s what I was to him.

A placeholder with a ring.

Damian lowered his voice. “What if Abigail saw the concert video? You and Celeste looked like a damn couple.”

Griffin laughed. “She’s obsessed with me. She’ll swallow whatever excuse I give her. I’ll tell her it was edited. She’s always been desperate for someone to keep her.”

The venom in his tone drained what little warmth was left in my body.

He made his choice long before I ever suspected.

He chose Celeste.

Chose the son she carried.

Chose power over blood.

And he erased our daughter because she didn’t fit the blueprint he had for his empire.

---

When their footsteps faded, something inside me snapped awake.

I sat up, ripped the IV from my arm, and braced myself as dizziness crashed over me. Blood soaked the sheets, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

I clutched my stomach where my daughter once lived and let the last tears fall—quiet, bitter, exhausted.

Then I reached under the mattress, fingers trembling, and pulled out the burner phone I’d hidden years ago.

A number I had sworn I would never dial again stared back at me.

I pressed call.

The phone only rang once before a voice poured through the speaker—silky, dangerous, unmistakable.

“Well, look who decided to resurrect herself,” he drawled. “Tell me, bella, what made you dial my number again?”

My throat burned, but my voice came out steady. “I’ll marry you,” I said, tasting the last of my dignity crumble, “but only if you help me bury Griffin Mercer and everything he’s ever built.”

Silence.

Then a low, amused hum.

“A proposal and a vendetta in the same breath,” he purred. “You never disappoint. When do you want me there?”

“Six days,” I answered. “I have a few ghosts to put to rest first.”

I ended the call, let the burner phone fall onto the mattress, and stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror wasn’t fragile anymore. She wasn’t broken. She looked like someone who had finally woken up.

And Griffin?

He had no idea he’d just trained me to become the very weapon that would ruin him.

---

Griffin didn’t come home that night.

Not that I could’ve slept anyway.

The pain radiating from the surgical wound pulsed like a sick heartbeat. The emptiness in my abdomen felt like a cavern carved open by cruelty. My baby was gone. My body was butchered. I cried until my throat went raw and my lungs felt bruised.

But by the time the sky lightened, something inside me had calcified.

No tears.

No begging.

Just a hollow, ruthless clarity.

The doctor walked in like it was any ordinary morning, chart in hand, pretending he wasn’t part of the nightmare.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Mercer?”

I didn’t look at him. “When can I leave?”

He blinked, startled. “I—I’ll get your discharge paperwork started.”

I didn’t need recovery. I needed revenge.

The moment he stepped out, I grabbed another burner phone and dialed a lawyer whose number I’d memorized for emergencies.

“I want to file for divorce,” I said flatly.

“Understood,” came the crisp reply. “E-documents are on the way. You should have the official papers within seventy-two hours.”

I hung up without a thank you.

A few minutes later, the doctor returned—this time with Griffin’s driver lingering awkwardly beside him.

“Ma’am,” the driver said softly, “Mr. Mercer sent me to bring you home. He’s… uh… cooking dinner for you.”

I almost laughed. Griffin didn’t know the first thing about what I liked. Five years married, and he still thought my favorite food was something I wouldn’t survive eating.

I forced a nod. “Fine. Take me.”

---

The mansion looked exactly as it always had—cold, pristine, staged like a show home. Not an inch out of place. Not a whisper of warmth. But the scene in the living room made my stomach twist.

Celeste.

Lounging on my couch like royalty, draped in a crimson dress hugging her pregnant belly. One manicured hand holding a wine glass she didn’t even pretend to hide. Her posture said everything: she thought she belonged here.

Hovering beside her like some proud mother hen was Griffin’s mother—the same woman who once hissed that her son “made a charitable decision” by marrying a girl with no pedigree.

My chest tightened. My muscles locked.

Celeste glanced up, lips curving into a syrupy smile.

“Oh. You finally made it back, Abigail.”

Before I could respond, my mother-in-law snapped, voice sharp as glass, “Why is she even here? She was never fit to stand beside my son. I don’t know why he didn’t toss her ungrateful, barren behind out years ago.”

My nails dug into my palms. I tasted blood. I said nothing. I had heard worse from the world.

I turned toward the staircase.

I barely took three steps before fingers tangled in my hair and yanked—hard.

“AH—!”

My head jerked back. My balance faltered. The slap that followed came fast and vicious, her heavy ring slicing my cheek open.

“You disrespectful whore,” she snarled. “You can’t even greet your elders? Did you forget manners while you were killing your bastard child?”

My sight blurred—not from pain.

From fury so sharp it tasted metallic.

Slowly, I straightened, turned, and met her gaze head-on.

“Why don’t you ask your precious son,” I rasped, “why my daughter died?”

Everything fell silent.

Celeste froze.

Griffin’s mother stiffened, her certainty wavering.

“Ask him,” I repeated, louder, “where he was while I was strapped to a filthy bed begging for my baby. Ask him why he took his mistress to a concert while he paid men to slaughter my little girl—for her.”

Celeste’s face drained of color. My mother-in-law stared, stunned.

Then—another slap. Hard enough to make my ears ring.

“Stop blaming my son for your failures,” she spat. “You couldn’t even defend your own womb. You were never meant to be a mother.”

I stumbled back.

And then—

“That’s enough, Ma.”

Griffin’s voice cut clean through the room.

He walked in wearing an apron, wiping his hands on a towel like some doting husband preparing a home-cooked meal. A wooden spoon dangled from his fingers.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” he said mildly.

Then he turned to me, reached for my face like nothing was wrong, like I didn’t know the truth.

“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

I flinched away, revulsion twisting through me.

His expression tightened. “Abigail. Apologize. To my mother. And to Celeste. That behavior isn’t acceptable.”

A laugh scraped out of me—dry, hollow, poisonous.

“What are they doing in my house?”

“She always speaks to you like this?” his mother cut in.

Celeste sighed, dramatic and fragile. “Maybe I should give you two some space. I don’t want to be the reason for more stress.”

And then—

A small voice.

“Daddy? Why is that lady yelling?”

I turned slowly.

A little girl stood in the hallway. Four, maybe five. Dark curls. Big hazel eyes. Griffin’s dimples.

My heart stopped.

“Who is that?” I whispered.

Griffin didn’t hesitate.

“Oh, Celeste’s daughter from her late husband. She’s a widow now. And since she’s pregnant and the house is too large, they’ll be living with us for a while.”

My jaw trembled. “And she calls you Daddy?”

He shrugged. “Kids get attached. I don’t want to upset her.”

My laugh broke out—low, heartless.

So that was it.

She was his child.

Their child.

He murdered mine because she was a girl, but kept this one because she fit his perfect little narrative.

He walked toward the dining table, proudly unveiling a steaming dish.

“I made your favorite.”

The smell hit me—briny, sharp.

Shellfish.

I was allergic.

Extremely.

Five years together, and he didn’t remember.

Or maybe he did.

My stomach twisted violently. I bent over and threw up onto the marble floor.

Celeste leapt backward with a shriek.

“Oh my God, Abigail! Really? You couldn’t just ask me to leave? Did you have to puke on me and my daughter?”

I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth, shooting her a cold stare.

“You’re practically across the room,” I muttered. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Before I could even steady myself, Griffin’s fingers clamped around my arm, hard enough to bruise. He jerked me downward, forcing me onto my knees like he wanted to grind me into the floor.

“So you insist on behaving like filth?” he whispered, his voice razor-sharp, his eyes dead as stone. “Then stay where filth belongs.” His face hovered inches from mine, breath hot and furious. “Say you’re sorry,” he demanded, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Right now. Or I swear I’ll make you lick that mess off the tiles like the mutt you’re acting like.”

I stared straight into his face.

“You should’ve finished me off when you had the chance, Griffin,” I said quietly. “Because now? There’s nothing left of me you can threaten.”

Before he could reply, Celeste whimpered behind him, one hand clutching her stomach like she’d been stabbed.

“Griffin… the smell… I’m dizzy… I—I think I’m going to pass out.”

He dropped me like I was nothing and sprinted toward her, scooping her up as though she were spun glass.

“Clean it up,” he barked without so much as a backward glance, disappearing down the hallway with the people he actually cared about.

His mother brushed past, her voice a venomous hiss.

“Disgrace.”

I wiped my face. Cleaned the floor. Played the obedient wife. And then I went upstairs.

---

Our bedroom looked like the aftermath of a break-in—except I was the intruder dismantling my own life.

Five years. Five years of sleeping beside that man. Trusting him. Believing in the promises he fed me so easily.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer. Inside was a sealed envelope—the resignation letter I’d written weeks before, back when I still believed peace was waiting for me after childbirth. Back when I still thought leaving the family business meant entering a softer, safer chapter.

That version of me was dead.

I folded the letter together with the incomplete divorce documents. Then I rose and began ripping everything else apart. Photographs of us in Italy, our wedding day, the housewarming party in our first home—lies stapled to the wall. I tore them down one by one. Tossed every necklace, ring, bracelet he’d ever given me into a box like scrap metal.

I’d just pulled a portrait off its hook when the door swung open.

Griffin stepped inside. His expression darkened.

“What the hell is all this?”

I didn’t even blink.

“I’m getting rid of everything you ever gifted me. I don’t need any of it.”

“Is this because of what happened earlier?” he asked, guiding himself toward me. “I lost my temper. I’ll buy you something better. Just… put in a little effort with Celeste, okay? She means a lot to me. I trust her completely.”

I lifted my eyes. “Fine.”

“She’s staying,” he said firmly. “Whether you like it or not. I’ll send her up so you two can patch things up.”

He kissed my cheek—because I refused to turn my face—and walked out as though the matter was settled.

---

Ten minutes later, Celeste strutted into the bedroom without knocking.

She looked around as though the space was already hers.

“Perfect. Clear your stuff out. I’ll be moving in soon.”

I didn’t bother turning to look at her. “Take it all. I won’t be here long.”

A laugh spilled out of her, high and victorious.

“Oh, Griffin filled me in. And since you’ve been such a headache, want to know something I’ve been keeping from you? My daughter—yeah, the one I ‘co-parent’ with my ex? She’s Griffin’s. I’ve been with him for years.” Her smile sharpened. “But I’m not the side piece anymore. I’m pregnant with his son now. A real heir. Unlike you. You gave him a girl… and well, she didn’t survive. Tough luck. But honestly? She was never meant to be part of the plan.”

I lowered myself onto the bed slowly, like the air had thickened.

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself to sleep at night… enjoy it. If my grief entertains you, go ahead. Soak in every drop.”

Her grin wavered.

“Why aren’t you yelling? Why aren’t you throwing things?” she snapped. “Aren’t you furious? Griffin did all of this because I told him to!”

I looked her in the eye, my voice steady.

“Congratulations. You win. He’s yours.”

Something inside her cracked.

“You pathetic little bitch!” she shrieked, lunging at me and grabbing my wrist.

“Let go,” I warned.

Instead, she jerked harder, trying to drag me toward the hall—then suddenly she dropped my arm, staggered backward, and screamed.

“Abigail—NO!”

She hurled herself backward down the stairs.

The sound—bones hitting wood, a scream shattering, a final sickening crash—echoed up the entire house.

Footsteps thundered toward her.

Griffin. His mother. His daughter, Sienna.

They froze at the bottom. Celeste lay twisted on the floor, blood pooling beneath her.

Griffin’s gaze snapped up to me. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, murderous.

“What the hell did you do?!”

I remained at the top of the staircase, clutching the railing, my pulse pounding like war drums. It wasn’t Celeste’s fall that tore me open—it was Sienna’s scream.

“Mama! Mommy!”

Her tiny hands shook Celeste’s body, tears streaming down her face.

Then Griffin looked at me again. Those eyes—once warm, once protective—were now an executioner’s blade.

“If she dies,” he said, voice cracking like ice under weight, “or if the baby does… you better pray hell takes you first.”

He lifted Celeste in his arms like a tragic hero while David clung to his side, sobbing.

Griffin’s mother spat at me as she passed.

“You cursed whore! Rot!”

No one asked for my side. No one paused to wonder. Celeste had always had them wrapped tight around her finger; all she needed was a scream and they turned me into a monster.

I stood there until my legs went numb.

Then two of Griffin’s guards stormed up the stairs. They didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate. They seized my arms, twisted them behind me, and dragged me like I was a criminal they were eager to dispose of.

“Let go of me! I didn’t do anything!” I screamed, but my voice cracked, falling useless in the air.

Marrying the devil means your screams don’t matter.

They shoved me into one of Griffin’s black SUVs—the ones used for disappearances—and drove. When we stopped, my heart dropped.

His private clinic.

The same place where inconvenient bodies and mistakes vanished behind locked doors.

The guards hauled me inside. Griffin was waiting in the hallway.

“Griffin! Listen to me. I never touched her, I—”

His hand flashed. The slap snapped my head sideways. My mouth flooded with the metallic taste of blood.

He leaned in, hatred burning in his eyes.

“I’m finished with your lies. You’re going to donate blood to Celeste. You shoved her, and now you’ll save her.”

I spat blood onto the floor, wiped my lip, and glared up at him.

“I didn’t push her. And she’s not getting anything from me.”

That broke him.

His fingers closed around my throat so suddenly I lost my breath. I clawed at his hands, my feet scrambling against the tile.

“C-Griffin—please—” I choked, gasping, vision blurring.

“Enough, Mr. Mercer!” the doctor shouted, rushing forward. “You’ll kill her!”