Chapter 1

The faint, wheezing breaths from the nursery monitor ripped through the quiet afternoon.

My heart seized. Little Samuel.

I bolted from the sunroom, tea forgotten, and sprinted up the grand staircase of the Winston estate.

The door to his room was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

Chloe, my fourteen-year-old stepdaughter, stood near his crib, a small, almost imperceptible smile on her lips.

Samuel, my two-month-old son, was blue. His tiny chest hitched with a terrible, shallow rhythm.

His emergency inhaler, the one that had saved him twice before from these sudden, terrifying episodes, lay on the floor, just out of reach of the crib, its cap beside it.

"Chloe?" My voice was a raw whisper.

She turned, her expression shifting to one of wide-eyed, feigned innocence. "Emily! Is something wrong with Samuel?"

My gaze shot from her to the inhaler, then back to my son.

He was dying.

I lunged for Samuel, scooping his limp body into my arms.

"What did you do?" I screamed, fumbling for the inhaler, my hands shaking too violently.

Chloe flinched. "I didn't do anything! I just came to check on him."

Her eyes, a cool blue just like her father's, held no concern, only a flicker of something calculating.

"Daddy!" Chloe suddenly shrieked, her voice a piercing wail. "Daddy, help! Emily's gone crazy!"

She spun and fled the room.

I barely registered her leaving, my entire being focused on Samuel, on trying to force air into his struggling lungs.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

James, my husband, burst into the nursery, Chloe clinging to his arm, sobbing.

"What in God's name is going on?" James demanded, his eyes immediately finding Chloe.

"Emily... she's... she's accusing me," Chloe choked out between theatrical sobs. "Samuel... he's not breathing right."

James's gaze finally shifted to me, to the tiny, stilling form in my arms.

His handsome face, usually so quick to show affection for Chloe, was a mask of annoyance, not grief.

"What happened, Emily?" he asked, his tone flat, devoid of the panic a father should feel.

"He couldn't breathe... the inhaler..." My words caught in my throat, choked by a rising tide of horror and a dawning, terrible understanding.

Just then, Margaret Winston, James's mother, appeared in the doorway, her posture ramrod straight, her expression severe.

"More drama?" she said, her voice like chipped ice. "What is it now?"

She surveyed the scene – me clutching Samuel, James comforting a wailing Chloe.

Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on Samuel for a moment.

"Some children are just not meant for this world, Emily," Margaret stated, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. The Winston name doesn't need weakness."

Her words struck me harder than a physical blow.

Weakness. My son.

Chloe, emboldened by her grandmother's presence, sniffled. "She's blaming me, Grandma. But I didn't do anything."

James stroked Chloe's hair. "Of course you didn't, sweetheart."

He looked at me, his eyes cold. "Emily, this is... unfortunate. But Chloe is distraught."

My son was dead. My son, who had a treatable, though serious, heart defect. My son, whose life depended on that small plastic inhaler Chloe had moved.

And they cared about Chloe's distress.

A cold rage, pure and absolute, flooded through me, drowning the grief.

In that moment, something inside me shifted. A strange certainty, a primal knowledge, bloomed in the devastation.

I remembered the almost obsessive focus I'd had during my pregnancy with Samuel – the meticulous diet, the carefully controlled environment, the sheer force of will I'd poured into wanting a healthy child. He had been born with a defect, yes, but he had been *alive*.

I could do it again. I knew, with an unnerving, intuitive certainty, that I could control it. I could choose.

I looked directly at James, my voice surprisingly steady.

"James."

He looked up, impatient.

"I can give you sons, James."

He stared at me, baffled. Margaret raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"Healthy sons," I continued, the words tasting like ash and iron. "Strong sons. With perfect minds. Sons to carry the Winston name."

Chloe stopped her fake crying, her eyes widening.

James looked at me as if I'd truly lost my mind. "Emily, you just... your son..."

"That was an accident," I said, my gaze unwavering. "A terrible, preventable accident. But I know what to do now. I can guarantee it."

Chloe scoffed. "She's lying, Daddy! How can she guarantee anything? She just had a... a sick baby."

James's expression hardened. "Emily, this is not the time. You're clearly not thinking straight. Perhaps it's best if you... take some time away. I'll arrange a generous settlement for you."

Two million dollars, he'd offered before, when I first found out about Samuel's heart. To make the problem go away.

Now, he was offering it again. For me to go away.

I clutched Samuel's cooling body tighter.

No. Not this time.

"Believe me, James," I said, my voice low and intense. "Give me one more chance. If I fail, you can send me away with nothing."