Chapter 2

James stared at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Hope? Or just morbid curiosity?

Margaret Winston, however, looked intrigued. The matriarch of the Winston dynasty, a woman who valued legacy above all else, saw a potential solution to her son's heir problem. James had a string of daughters from previous liaisons, none of them healthy, all quietly "handled" – except for Chloe, his supposed perfect child.

"You're very confident, Emily," Margaret said, her voice still cool but with a new edge of calculation. "What makes you so sure?"

"I just know," I said. It was the truth. A deep, unshakeable conviction had settled in my bones. I could almost feel the pathways, the precise combinations of diet, rest, even thought, that would lead to the desired outcome. It was like a map unfolding in my mind.

Chloe, sensing a shift in the room's dynamics, tugged at James's sleeve. "Daddy, don't listen to her! She's just saying that so she can stay! She's probably infertile anyway, or her eggs are bad!"

The cruelty in her voice was breathtaking.

James winced slightly, a rare sign of discomfort. He did desperately want a healthy son. The Winston empire, built on Texas oil and Southern grit, was traditionally passed down through the male line. He was the first Winston in generations to face such a crisis of succession.

"If... if you could truly guarantee a healthy son..." James began, then trailed off, looking at Margaret.

Margaret gave a curt nod. "It would be... advantageous for the family."

Advantageous. Not a comfort to a grieving mother, but a strategic move for the Winston clan.

I swallowed the bitterness. "I can. I swear it."

"Alright, Emily," James said, his voice suddenly decisive. "One chance. We'll try again. But if this child... if there are any issues..."

"There won't be," I stated.

He held my gaze for a long moment. "Then we'll prepare."

A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled my knees, washed over me. I had bought myself time. Time to mourn, time to plan, and time for revenge.

Chloe's face contorted with fury. "Daddy, no! You can't believe her!"

"Enough, Chloe!" James snapped, his patience finally wearing thin. "This is my decision." He then softened his tone towards her. "Don't worry, sweetheart. No one will ever replace you."

I almost laughed. Oh, Chloe, you have no idea.

"If she's lying, James," Margaret warned, her eyes like steel, "there will be consequences."

"I understand, Mother," James said.

He then turned to me, a strange new light in his eyes – a mixture of hope and something akin to respect. "We'll give Samuel a proper burial. A Winston burial."

It was a concession, a first step.

The funeral for Little Samuel was ostentatious, a display of Winston wealth and influence. I stood beside James, a grieving widow in black, playing my part. Chloe stood on his other side, glaring daggers at me throughout the service.

I ignored her. I focused on the tiny white casket, a silent promise forming in my heart. *They will pay, Samuel. I swear it.*

Later that week, in the vast, manicured gardens of the Winston estate, Chloe cornered me.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" she hissed, her pretty face ugly with spite. "You won't get away with this. You can't give my father a healthy son. It's his genes that are the problem, you know. That's why all his other babies were... wrong."

Her words hung in the air. *His genes.*

A sudden, chilling thought struck me. If James's genes were truly the issue, why was Chloe so perfect, so healthy? She was his proclaimed pride and joy, the one success story among a series of genetic disasters.

I stepped closer to her, my voice low. "If his genes are so bad, Chloe, how did you turn out so... flawless?"

A flicker of panic crossed her face. Genuine panic.

"I... I misspoke," she stammered, backing away. "I just meant... he's had bad luck."

She turned and practically ran back towards the house.

I watched her go, a cold certainty settling in.

Chloe Winston was not James's biological daughter.

That night, James came to my suite. He was gentler than he'd been in months, his eyes holding a new tenderness, or perhaps just the reflection of his desperate hope.

"Are you sure about this, Emily?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Yes, James," I said, meeting his gaze. "I'm sure."

He spoke of doctors, of genetic counseling he'd undergone, treatments he'd tried. He believed any issues were now resolved.

It didn't matter. My body, my intuition, would be the deciding factor.

As we lay together, I focused my will, visualizing two strong heartbeats, two healthy baby boys. My gift, my curse, was now my weapon.

Two weeks later, Dr. Peterson, the family physician, confirmed it with a wide smile.

"Congratulations, Mr. Winston, Emily. You're pregnant." James's hand tightened on mine. "And Emily, it looks like... twins."

James's face lit up with an almost boyish delight. "Twins? Are they... are they healthy?"

"So far, everything looks absolutely perfect," Dr. Peterson assured him. "Strong heartbeats. Both of them."

James turned to me, his eyes shining. "You did it, Emily. You really did it."

I smiled, a small, secretive smile.

This was only the beginning.