Chapter 3

Brooklyn Villarreal POV:

I woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the low, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. My body felt heavy, hollowed out. Through the thin wall of the private room, I could hear Dante' s voice, low and anxious, talking to a doctor.

"Is she okay? What happened?"

"Your wife is pregnant, Mr. Guy," the doctor' s voice was calm, professional. "About six weeks. The bleeding was caused by severe emotional distress and physical strain. She needs complete bed rest. You were very lucky you didn' t lose the baby."

Pregnant. The word didn' t compute. It was a miracle I had stopped praying for years ago. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, a flutter of disbelief and a fierce, unfamiliar wave of protectiveness washing over me. A baby. Our baby.

Dante' s response was a choked sound. "Pregnant? I… I didn' t know. I' ll take care of her. I swear."

But his voice lacked the joyous shock I would have expected. It was strained, tense. As I lay there, a new, jarring sound reached me from the hallway-the sharp, indignant voice of Karly Gomez.

"What do you mean I can' t go in? Dante! Are you in there? Did you forget you promised to take me to my appointment?"

My blood ran cold. She was here.

"Karly, not now," Dante' s voice was a harsh whisper.

"Not now?" she shrieked. "You leave me at the clinic to rush over here for her? What about me? What about our baby? Are you going to abandon us just because that barren bitch miraculously got knocked up?"

The venom in her words was shocking, but it was Dante' s reply that shattered the last vestiges of my hope.

"Of course not," he soothed, his voice dripping with a tenderness he hadn' t shown me in years. "Her child… it' s a mistake. A complication. It doesn' t change anything. You and our son are the future of the Guy family."

A mistake. A complication.

"But what if she uses the baby to hold onto you?" Karly' s voice was laced with faux concern. "What if she won' t give you a divorce?"

There was a long pause, and then Dante' s voice, colder than I had ever heard it, sliced through the silence. "She won' t. Brooklyn is nothing without me. She' s a washed-up tech genius living off my generosity. A parasite. She needs me more than I need her. She' ll do as she' s told."

Parasite. The word echoed in the hollow space where my heart used to be. The fortune I had poured into his company, the legacy of my parents he had built his new empire upon-all of it twisted into an ugly narrative of dependence. He hadn' t just betrayed me; he had erased me.

"And the inheritance?" Karly pressed, her greed thinly veiled. "The Guy construction empire… it should go to our son. Not to… that."

"It will," Dante said, his voice flat and final. "Her child has no claim. Trust me."

Karly giggled, a triumphant, ugly sound. "Oh, Dante, I knew you loved me more."

I heard the distinct sound of a kiss, followed by their retreating footsteps. I pressed my hand against the doorframe, my nails digging into the wood, the physical pain a dull anchor in a sea of emotional agony. My family' s legacy, the empire my parents had built, would be handed over to the son of the woman who had helped destroy them.

A rage, cold and pure, burned through me. This wasn' t just about a broken marriage anymore. This was about my child. My parents. My entire world.

He thought I was nothing without him. He was about to find out just how wrong he was. I would not let my child be born into this web of lies and cruelty. We would disappear. We would be free.

Later that afternoon, Dante returned, his face a perfect picture of concern. He carried a thermos of soup he claimed to have made himself.

"Brooklyn, my love," he said, his voice laced with practiced warmth. "The doctor told me the news. A baby! Can you believe it? We' re going to be a family." He was a brilliant actor. He even had names picked out, painting a beautiful picture of a future I now knew was a lie.

I played along, a fragile smile on my face, my mind racing. I let him fuss over me, let him believe his performance was working. The next day, feigning a need for a routine check-up, I was escorted from my room by a nurse. Dante, ever the concerned husband, started to follow, but his phone rang. It was Karly, of course. He waved me on, promising to catch up.

He never did.

As I sat in the phlebotomy chair, another nurse approached, her smile tight and unnatural. I didn't recognize her. Before I could question it, I felt a sharp prick in my arm. It wasn' t the familiar pinch of a needle drawing blood. This was different. Colder. A strange, sluggish feeling began to creep up my arm.

My eyes widened in terror. This wasn' t a blood test.