Chapter 1

The charity gala was in full swing, a sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. Every influential person in the city was here, their laughter echoing off the crystal chandeliers. The event was to celebrate Emily Chen' s return, and my boyfriend, the tech mogul Mark Johnson, was its biggest sponsor. I stood by a pillar, a quiet shadow in a white dress, watching him hang on Emily' s every word.

Emily, a social media star with a million-watt smile, was Mark's high school sweetheart. She had just returned from a long stint overseas, and it felt like she had never left. Mark orbited her like she was the sun, his eyes alight with a fervor I hadn't seen in years.

He finally noticed me, his gaze sweeping over me with a flicker of annoyance. He strode over, a glass of champagne in his hand, with Emily trailing gracefully behind him.

"Sarah, say hello to Emily," he said, his voice a little too loud. His friends were watching, their smiles tight and knowing.

"Hello," I murmured, my hand instinctively going to my stomach. I was two months pregnant, a fact only Mark and I knew.

Emily's eyes scanned my simple dress, a hint of a smirk on her lips. "Mark, you' re not letting your girlfriend have a drink? How rude."

Mark laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. He pushed the glass of champagne into my hand. "She' s just being dramatic. Her stomach is a little sensitive."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Mark, you know I can' t. The doctor said-"

"Don' t make a scene," he hissed, his fingers digging into my arm. "Everyone is watching. Just take a sip to toast Emily' s return. It' s important."

His grip was like steel. The pressure from his friends, from Emily' s condescending stare, was suffocating. My hand trembled as I brought the glass to my lips. The cold, bubbly liquid felt like poison as I swallowed. A sharp cramp immediately seized my abdomen, stealing my breath. I gasped, dropping the glass. It shattered on the marble floor.

The pain was blinding, a hot, tearing sensation that made me double over. I looked down. A dark red stain was spreading across the front of my white dress, a gruesome flower blooming against the fabric. The world started to spin.

Through a haze of agony, I saw Mark. He hadn' t even glanced my way. He was standing by the appetizer table, laughing as he carefully spoon-fed Emily a dollop of expensive caviar. His friends cheered.

"Don' t mind her," I heard him say, his voice distant and dismissive as my vision tunneled to black. "She' s just a pet I keep. Can' t live without me."

The last thing I felt before I passed out was the cold, unforgiving floor against my cheek.

I woke up to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of a machine. The hospital room was cold and white. A doctor with a kind, sad face told me what I already knew. The baby was gone. The words were gentle, but they landed like body blows, leaving me hollowed out and empty.

My phone was on the bedside table. I picked it up with a shaking hand. There was one notification. Mark had updated his profile picture. It was now a professional shot of Emily' s elegant side profile. Then I saw the other change. I tried to message him, to ask him why, to scream at him through the screen.

The message wouldn't send. A small, gray text appeared below: You have been blocked by this user.

It was the 99th time he had blocked me after an argument. In the past, I would have cried, panicked, and used a friend's phone to call him, begging for forgiveness. I would have groveled until he unblocked me and let me back into his life.

But this time was different. The pain in my womb was a cold, hard reality. The image of him feeding Emily caviar while I bled on the floor was burned into my mind. His words, just a pet I keep, echoed in the silent room.

I didn't cry. I didn't beg. A strange calm washed over me. I opened a new app on my phone. I searched for flights.

I booked a one-way ticket to Paris, leaving in three days.

I remembered all the times I had sat by the phone, my stomach in knots, waiting for him to decide I was worthy of his attention again. I remembered apologizing for things that weren't my fault, just to feel the temporary relief of his affection. I had mistaken his control for love, his financial support for security.

A confirmation email popped up on my screen. My flight was booked. My seat was assigned. It was real.

For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of something that wasn't fear or pain. It was a tiny spark of hope. The escape was on.