Chapter 3

She stopped two feet from where Dulce knelt in the puddle of blood, her gaze raking over the girl's torn dress, bruised collarbones, and bare, bloodied legs.

"You worthless little parasite!"

Martha swung her heavy, structured leather handbag with all her might, the metal clasp catching Dulce across the cheek with a sickening crack.

The blow snapped Dulce's head to the side. A sharp sting flared along her cheekbone, warm blood immediately trickling down to her chin. She collapsed sideways against the wet steps, too exhausted to shield herself.

Martha grabbed the torn neckline of Dulce's dress, yanking her up until their faces were inches apart.

"Why was Kai on that roof? What did you do to him? And what are these disgusting marks all over your neck?"

Reporters pressed closer against the tape, the shutters of their cameras clicking like a swarm of locusts, capturing every shred of Dulce's humiliation.

Dulce swallowed past the dry, burning ache in her throat. Rain mixed with the blood on her lips.

"Mrs. Copeland... please... it wasn't me... Kai was murdered... someone pushed him..."

"Liar!" Martha screamed, shoving Dulce backward with vicious force. "If it weren't for him trying to buy you that ridiculous apartment, he would have never gotten involved with the board! You dragged him down! You killed my only son!"

Dulce's lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the stone stairs.

A sudden, white-hot spasm of agony ripped through her lower abdomen, so sharp and violent that her vision flared black. She curled onto her side, clutching her stomach as cold sweat broke out across her forehead.

"Get out of New York!" Martha pointed a trembling, manicured finger at her face, her voice carrying over the crowd. "If I ever see your face at Kai's memorial, I will make sure you end up in the Hudson River!"

Two of Martha's bodyguards stepped forward, grabbed Dulce by the arms like a sack of trash, and dragged her across the wet pavement, tossing her out onto the street beyond the yellow tape.

Dulce lay in the gutter, shivering uncontrollably, her arms wrapped around her cramping stomach.

Tires screeched near her head. A matte-red Jeep Wrangler mounted the curb, its door flying open instantly.

Dulce's best friend, Alanis Burke, sprinted through the rain, dropping to her knees and throwing her long trench coat over Dulce's shivering frame.

"Dulce! Sweet Jesus, Dulce, look at me!" Alanis's voice broke with panic as she hauled Dulce up into her arms. "Hold on, baby, I've got you. I've got you!"

Alanis shoved Dulce into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and sped through three red lights, leaning on the horn until she screeched into the emergency bay of St. Mary's Hospital.

Two hours later, the sharp stench of antiseptic filled the sterile white cubicle.

Dulce lay under a thin hospital blanket, an IV line taped to the back of her bruised hand. The cramping in her gut had dulled to a heavy, rhythmic ache.

The curtain was pulled back. A middle-aged emergency room doctor stepped in, holding a clipboard, his face grim.

"Miss Long," the doctor began, pulling a stool beside the bed. "You have severe soft tissue contusions, a minor concussion, and a laceration on your cheek. Fortunately, the scans show no internal bleeding or permanent damage."

Dulce looked at him, her fingers curling into the stiff bedsheet.

"We've cleaned and closed the wound on your cheek. The muscle spasms in your abdomen appear to be the result of blunt-force trauma and extreme physical stress, but I want you to return immediately if the pain worsens, if you begin bleeding, or if you lose consciousness."

Dulce nodded numbly.

The doctor handed the clipboard to a nurse, gave Alanis a brief list of discharge instructions, and stepped out of the cubicle.

The moment the curtain fell shut behind him, Alanis moved to Dulce's bedside, her eyes burning with protective rage.

"Dulce... what happened to you tonight? Who did this?"

Dulce stared at the rain streaking the narrow hospital window. The blue-grey eyes of the stranger in Suite 808 flashed through her mind.

"I went into the wrong suite," she whispered. "There was a man inside. I couldn't see his face. I don't even know his name."

Alanis went deathly still. She reached for Dulce's hand, gripping it tightly.

"Then we go to the police."

Dulce shut her eyes. She saw Kai's broken body on the marble and remembered his final warning.

Never trust Justice.

"Not tonight," she said hoarsely. "I can't do anything else tonight."

Two days after Kai's death, the bells of Trinity Church tolled a slow, somber death knell.

The Copeland family had organized a private, closed-door memorial service. High iron gates kept the public and the press at bay.

Dulce stood fifty yards away, hidden in the shadows of a massive sycamore tree. She wore an oversized black coat, a low-brimmed cap, and dark sunglasses that concealed the bandage on her cheekbone.

The mournful swell of an organ drifted through the stained-glass windows. Through the iron bars, she could see the sleek white casket being carried out toward the hearse, surrounded by weeping socialites in tailored black.

Dulce reached into her coat and pulled out a small, oval-shaped wooden pendant hanging from a thin leather cord.

Kai had carved it for her with his own hands on their first anniversary, the smooth cedar wood polished to a soft sheen. On the back, his neat, architectural script was etched into the grain: Forever, K.

She pressed the wood to her lips, letting a single tear slip beneath the rim of her sunglasses.

"Goodbye, Kai," she whispered against the cold bark of the tree. "I will find out who did this. I swear it."

At the intersection fifty feet down the block, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat idling in the rain.

The rear tinted window slid down two inches.

From the shadows of the leather interior, a pair of ice-cold blue-grey eyes fixed upon the slender figure standing by the sycamore tree, zeroing in on the carved wooden pendant resting against her collarbone.

Six weeks after the night at the Grand Regency, Dulce woke before dawn and vomited into her bathroom sink for the third morning in a row.

Her period still had not come. At first, she had blamed the delay on grief, trauma, and the sleepless nights that had followed Kai's death. But the nausea, crushing fatigue, and sudden aversion to the smell of coffee had become impossible to ignore.

That morning, she bought three pregnancy tests from different pharmacies. Every one of them showed two lines.

By noon, Alanis was sitting beside her in the obstetrics and gynecology department of St. Mary's Hospital.

Dulce lay on an examination table beneath a thin paper sheet, staring at the grainy black-and-white image on the ultrasound monitor. Two small gestational sacs glowed against the darkness of her uterus. Within each one was a tiny embryo, accompanied by the rapid flicker of cardiac activity.

The obstetrician set down the transvaginal ultrasound probe and turned toward her, her expression solemn.

"Miss Long, the ultrasound confirms a viable twin pregnancy," she said. "Both embryos are measuring at approximately eight weeks of gestational age. That places conception roughly six weeks ago."

The words felt like a physical blow to her chest.

Twins.

They could not be Kai's. She and Kai had never crossed that final line. The twins had been conceived during the assault in Suite 808.

Alanis, who had been standing beside the examination table with her arms crossed, froze. She stepped forward, her eyes wide with shock, and pulled the curtain completely shut.

"Dulce... they're his, aren't they?" Alanis whispered, her voice trembling with protective rage. "The man from the hotel. We have to terminate. We can't keep this."

Dulce touched her flat stomach. The warmth beneath her palm felt terrifyingly fragile.

"Miss Long," the obstetrician interrupted quietly, looking at her chart. "Before you make any decision, there is something I need to explain carefully. I reviewed the records from your previous gynecologic treatment. Your earlier uterine condition left extensive endometrial scarring, and your ovarian reserve is critically low. The fact that you conceived and that both embryos implanted successfully is medically extraordinary."

Dulce's fingers tightened over her stomach. "What does that mean?"

"Ending this pregnancy would not, by itself, make you infertile," the obstetrician said. "But your chances of conceiving again are already extremely low. If you terminate, I cannot promise that you will ever have another viable pregnancy. Continuing a twin pregnancy will also carry significant risks, so you would need close monitoring from a maternal-fetal medicine specialist."

Silence fell over the small room, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Dulce stared down at her hands. The image of Kai's lifeless eyes on the cold marble flashed before her, followed by the memory of the terrifying power that had crushed him.

If she ended this pregnancy, she might be giving up her only chance to ever become a mother. The choice was cruel, but it belonged to her.

"I'm keeping them," Dulce whispered, a cold, stubborn resolve settling deep in her chest.