Chapter 1

The first thing I felt was a sharp, tearing pain in my stomach. It was a blinding white agony that stole the air from my lungs and sent me crashing to the hard, cold floor of the gallery. My gallery. The one that was supposed to be my dream.

Colors smeared in front of my eyes, the vibrant canvases I' d poured my soul into becoming a meaningless blur. I heard a scream, and it took me a moment to realize it was my own.

Then came the voices, sharp and panicked.

"Call an ambulance!"

"She's bleeding!"

My hands went to my stomach, and they came back wet and red. A thick, metallic smell filled my senses, and the world started to go dark at the edges. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was a pair of expensive, sharp-toed shoes stepping deliberately away from me.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. The rocking of the ambulance, the wail of the siren, the feeling of a needle in my arm. It was all a confusing, painful haze.

Then, I was in a hospital bed. The pain was a dull, heavy throb now, thanks to whatever they were pumping into my veins. My eyes were closed, but I wasn't asleep. I was listening.

The door to my room was slightly ajar, and I could hear two voices whispering urgently in the hallway. I knew them instantly.

Mark. My fiancé.

And Chloe. The socialite who had suddenly become his closest confidante.

"Is she going to be okay?" Chloe's voice was a practiced, worried whisper. It was the same voice she used at charity galas to sound sincere.

"She'll be fine," Mark's voice was cold, impatient. "The important thing is, did you get what you needed? The final design portfolio?"

"Yes, of course," Chloe said, a hint of pride in her tone. "It was right there in her bag. With this, my gallery opening will be the talk of the town. No one will even remember Ava's little project."

My heart stopped. It felt like a block of ice had formed in my chest. Her gallery? Using my designs? The ones Mark had promised to fund for me, the ones he called my life's work?

"Good," Mark said, his voice flat. "Just make sure no one connects this back to you. It needs to look like a random mugging."

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. This wasn't a random mugging. This was planned. They had done this to me. The man I was supposed to marry, the man who held me last night and told me he loved me, had orchestrated this.

A new, more urgent pain shot through my abdomen, sharp and different from the initial injury. It was a deep, internal cramp that made me gasp. A nurse rushed in, her face a mask of concern. She checked the monitors, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Doctor!" she called out. "We have a problem."

The next few minutes were a blur of activity. More doctors, worried faces, urgent medical talk I couldn't understand. But I understood the feeling. The feeling of something precious being ripped away from me.

When the chaos subsided, a kind-faced doctor with sad eyes stood by my bed. He took a deep breath.

"Ms. Ava," he said gently. "The trauma to your abdomen was severe. We did everything we could, but... you've lost the baby."

The baby.

The words didn't even register at first.

Our baby. The tiny, secret life I had been carrying for ten weeks. The secret I was going to share with Mark tonight, a celebration of our future and our new gallery.

The doctor's words finally broke through the fog of shock and pain. A sob tore from my throat, raw and animalistic. I lost it. The last piece of the a beautiful future I thought I had was gone, destroyed in a cold, concrete gallery and a colder hospital hallway.

I lay there, the physical pain a distant echo to the vast, empty chasm that had opened up inside me. It was all a lie. The love, the promises, the shared dreams. All of it was a carefully constructed stage for his ambition and her greed.

I closed my eyes, and the tears streamed down my temples into my hair.

Mark, I thought, my voice a silent scream in my mind. We're over. This isn't just a breakup. This is war.

The pain in my stomach was a constant, burning reminder of what they had taken. It wasn't just my art, my gallery, my reputation. They had taken my child.

Every time I moved, a fresh wave of agony shot through me. The bruises on my skin were a dark, ugly map of their betrayal. The physical torment was relentless, but the mental anguish was worse.

I was trapped in this broken body, in this sterile room, with the devastating knowledge of their deceit. And it was just the beginning.