\u201cYour wife was eight weeks pregnant when she arrived in my O.R.,\u201d Dr. Reed stated, his voice a lethal whisper.
\nFlynn stopped breathing. The blood completely drained from his face.
\n\u201cIt was twins,\u201d Dr. Reed continued relentlessly.
\nThe bouquet of white roses slipped from Flynn\u2019s trembling hands, scattering petals across the sterile linoleum like dead snow.
\n\u201cNo…\u201d he choked out, stumbling backward until his spine hit the wall. \u201cBoth heartbeats… gone?\u201d
\nHe slid to the floor, grabbing his hair as a guttural sob tore through his chest. \u201cMabel, I swear to God, I didn’t know!\u201d
\nI stared at the pathetic, weeping creature I had once loved. The emptiness in my chest hardened into pure, unforgiving steel. I didn’t want his apologies anymore. I wanted his absolute ruin.
\nBut before I could speak, the hospital lights violently flickered, and the entire ICU plunged into pitch blackness…<\/p>\n
The Gilded Estate<\/b><\/p>\n
Chapter 1: The Final Breath of a Fool<\/b><\/p>\n
\u201cIf you ever put your hands on Selina again, I swear to God I will kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Those were the last words I heard from my husband before the illusion of my life shattered into a million jagged pieces. I didn\u2019t feel the pain immediately. I only felt a sudden, icy pressure just below my ribs, followed by a wet, heavy sound that seemed to echo in the cavernous silence of our Chicago penthouse.<\/p>\n
We had been married for three years. My name is Mabel Vance. Up until that crisp Tuesday afternoon, I had foolishly believed my marriage to Flynn could be salvaged from the wreckage of his past. He was the CEO of Vance Global<\/b>, a titan of industry. I was the dutiful wife, the smiling socialite managing our gold-leafed existence.<\/p>\n
The rot in our marriage had a name, a face, and an endless supply of designer tears: Selina Cole.<\/p>\n
That afternoon, she had burst into our home weeping, clutching a superficial scratch on her arm, claiming I had attacked her downtown. It was an absolute, absurd lie. I was in my silk pajamas. I hadn\u2019t left the house. But Flynn didn\u2019t look at me. He didn\u2019t ask for my side. He looked at the silver paring knife on the fruit platter, and his eyes\u2014the eyes I had woken up next to for a thousand days\u2014went completely dead.<\/p>\n
The first plunge stole the breath from my lungs. A sharp, burning coldness erupted in my abdomen. My knees buckled, sending me crashing onto the Persian rug. The second strike came a fraction of a second later.<\/p>\n
I lay there, gasping like a fish on dry land, the metallic scent of my own blood flooding my senses. I waited for him to drop the knife in horror. He didn\u2019t. He stepped over my bleeding body, knelt beside Selina, and draped his tailored jacket over her shoulders.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s okay now,\u201d he murmured, stroking her hair.<\/p>\n
Selina looked over his shoulder. Her tear-filled eyes locked onto mine. And then, she smirked.<\/p>\n
A primal, dormant instinct awakened in my fading consciousness. I wasn\u2019t just going to die on this rug as a victim of their twisted romance. I let my eyes roll back, letting my body go entirely limp. Play dead,<\/i> my mind screamed. Play dead.<\/i><\/p>\n
My left arm was tucked beneath my body, hidden from their view. With agonizing slowness, ignoring the fire tearing through my side, I curled my bloody fingers inward. I tapped the face of my smartwatch twice, navigating by pure memory.<\/p>\n
Voice Memos. Record.<\/i><\/p>\n
A tiny haptic buzz against my wrist confirmed it was rolling.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs she\u2026\u201d Selina\u2019s voice was no longer trembling. It was sharp. Cold.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s gone,\u201d Flynn said, his voice hollow. \u201cI\u2026 I did it, Selina. Just like you said. We\u2019re free.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou did perfectly, darling,\u201d Selina whispered. \u201cThe idiot believed every word. Let\u2019s get out of here. The cleaning crew my father hired will be here in ten minutes to stage the break-in.\u201d<\/p>\n
I listened to their footsteps retreat. I listened to the heavy oak door click shut. Only then did I allow the darkness to pull me under.<\/p>\n
Three days later, I woke up in the intensive care unit.<\/p>\n
The rhythmic, piercing beep of the heart monitor anchored me to reality. The smell of bleach and sterile iodine burned my nose. A tall man in a white coat stood over me. His name tag read Dr. Marcus Reed<\/b>, Chief of Trauma. His eyes were the color of slate, grave and unforgiving.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou survived, Mrs. Vance,\u201d he said softly. \u201cBut there is something you need to know. You were eight weeks pregnant when you were brought in.\u201d<\/p>\n
My heart stopped.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was twins,\u201d Marcus continued, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. \u201cBoth fetal heartbeats were lost due to severe maternal hemorrhaging.\u201d<\/p>\n
A scream built in my throat, a sound of such profound, apocalyptic grief that it threatened to tear my chest open. Flynn hadn\u2019t just murdered his wife. He had slaughtered our children to protect a woman with a papercut.<\/p>\n
Before I could vocalize my agony, the heavy door to my room creaked open.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, well. Look who decided to wake up,\u201d a voice drifted into the room.<\/p>\n
It was Dr. Richard Vance, Flynn\u2019s cousin and the associate director of the hospital. He stepped in, his eyes devoid of emotion, holding a syringe filled with a clear liquid.<\/p>\n
\u201cRichard, it\u2019s not your shift,\u201d Marcus said, stepping between us.<\/p>\n
\u201cChange of plans, Marcus,\u201d Richard said smoothly, raising the syringe. \u201cThe Vance family needs to ensure Mabel\u2019s medical complications\u2026 run their natural course.\u201d<\/p>\n