Chapter 2

When Genevra woke up, she was lying on a gurney inside a private OB-GYN clinic in Manhattan, transferred there after the hospital ER stabilized her initial shock. The glaring surgical light overhead stung her eyes, and a hollow, sinking sensation in her stomach made her chest tighten.

A female doctor on duty handed a surgical consent form to her with a solemn expression.

"Ms. Jensen, severe internal bleeding caused placental abruption. The male fetus of your twins no longer has a heartbeat. We must perform a dilation and curettage immediately."

At the word "twins," Genevra's fingers shook violently. Tears finally spilled over the corners of her eyes in the empty corridor.

"Doctor, can neither of them... be saved?"

The doctor sighed and handed her a tissue, unaware of the tiny second gestational sac hidden deep behind the hematoma.

"The impact was too severe. The male fetus absorbed most of the external trauma. We must operate now, or a severe uterine infection will threaten your life."

Trembling, Genevra signed her own name under the line marked for patients without accompanying family. She was wheeled into the freezing operating room as anesthesia flowed slowly into her vein.

Cold metal instruments clinked inside her body. Half-conscious, Genevra clenched her jaw tightly while the monotone beeping of the heart monitor echoed in her ears.

Two hours later, the procedure ended. The doctor handed her a sealed, small medical metal box.

"This contains the fetal tissue preserved according to your request. I am sorry for your loss."

Genevra held the freezing metal box with both hands, pressing it tightly against her chest as silent tears soaked the collar of her hospital gown. Refusing the doctor's advice to stay for observation, she changed back into her blood-stained coat, placed the metal box deep inside her handbag, and walked out into the pouring rain to hail a yellow cab to the Crosby estate on Long Island.

The cab passed through the wrought-iron gates and stopped in front of the brightly lit main mansion. Enduring the sharp contractions in her abdomen, Genevra stepped out of the car, her steps unsteady but her spine straight.

She pushed open the heavy carved oak doors. The scent of expensive cigars and black tea filled the foyer. Sitting beneath the crystal chandelier was Elder Crosby, the patriarch of the Crosby family.

The old butler took her wet coat with a cold expression, not even offering her a glass of warm water, his eyes full of contempt for a woman from a declining family.

Elder Crosby sat on the high-backed leather sofa without lifting his eyelids, his fingers rubbing a solid gold pocket watch.

"Barging into the main house reeking of blood. Did your manners go to the dogs?"

Genevra lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together, hiding her handbag slightly behind her back.

"I'm sorry. I had an accident on the road."

"I heard you ran to the hospital tonight to cause a scene in Aryanna's ward and embarrassed Bryce in front of everyone?" Elder Crosby slammed his teacup onto the table with a sharp clatter.

A dull ache pressed against Genevra's chest. She raised her gray-blue eyes to look directly at the old man.

"Aryanna was driving recklessly and rammed my car."

"Shut your mouth!" Elder Crosby snapped, his gaze sharp. "Aryanna is the heiress of the Henderson family and will expand our group's tech empire in Silicon Valley. You're a nobody who climbed into Bryce's bed using dirty tricks. What right do you have to compare yourself to her?"

The servants standing around lowered their heads, smirking as they watched the show.

The old butler stepped forward and tossed a thick book of family rules onto the coffee table.

"By the master's rules, for talking back to your elders and causing trouble, go to the side hall and copy the family rules fifty times. No dinner tonight."

Genevra looked at the gold-edged rulebook, a mocking smile curving her pale lips.

"That won't be necessary," she said, taking a slow breath. "I won't copy it."

Elder Crosby stood up abruptly, slamming his gold cane onto the Persian rug.

"What did you say? Do you really think carrying a Crosby child gives you the right to rebel in this house?"

Hearing the words "carrying a Crosby child," Genevra gripped her handbag until her knuckles turned white. To this family, she wasn't a legal wife; she was just a cheap breeding machine used to pass the family trust review.

"You'll have to find someone else to fulfill the inheritance clauses of the trust fund."

Genevra dropped the sentence coldly and turned toward the stairs leading to the second-floor guest rooms.

"How dare you! Stop right there!" the butler shouted behind her.

Genevra didn't pause, walking straight up the spiral staircase. She pushed open the door to her cold, empty side bedroom, locked it from the inside, and slid down against the wooden panel onto the carpet, hugging the metal box in her bag.

Outside the window, lightning cut through the night sky. She reached over to the nightstand drawer, pulled out her black Moleskine notebook, flipped to a blank page, and wrote two phrases at the top in firm strokes: Divorce, Project Genesis.