Chapter 4

The cry of a newborn baby echoed through the delivery suite.

Brogan Edwards shot to his feet, his heart pounding. A nurse opened the door, her face beaming.

"Congratulations, Mr. Edwards. It's a healthy baby boy."

Relief, potent and overwhelming, washed over him. He had done it. He had secured his brother's legacy. He had fulfilled his duty.

He rushed into the room. Kennedy was lying back on the bed, looking exhausted but triumphant. A doctor was holding up a small, crying infant.

"Seven pounds, two ounces," the doctor announced. "A perfect, healthy boy."

Brogan stared at the baby, his nephew. A wave of possessive pride swelled in his chest. This child was the future of the Edwards Corporation. He had made the right choice.

"Liam," Kennedy whispered, reaching out for her son. "His name is Liam Edwards."

Brogan smiled, a genuine, relieved smile. "He's perfect, Kennedy. You did it."

He allowed himself to hold the baby for a moment, feeling the fragile weight in his arms. This was what mattered. The legacy. The family name.

But as he looked down at the infant's face, an unwelcome image flashed in his mind. Grace. Her face, twisted in pain. The baby they were supposed to have. Their son.

A flicker of unease, of guilt, pricked at him. He had told himself her pain was an act, a performance. But Dr. Miles's frantic call echoed in his memory. We're losing her.

He quickly handed Liam back to a nurse.

"I need to make a call," he said, his voice suddenly tight. He walked out of the room, pulling out his phone. He had to know. He had to put the nagging worry to rest, to confirm that Grace's little drama was over and she was fine, just as he had predicted.

He was about to dial the mansion when Geoffrey came running down the hallway toward him, his face pale and stricken.

"Mr. Edwards!"

"What is it?" Brogan asked, an inexplicable dread creeping up his spine. "Is she still putting on her show?"

Geoffrey stopped in front of him, breathing heavily. He couldn't meet Brogan's eyes.

"Sir... it's Mrs. Edwards."

"What about her?" Brogan demanded, his patience snapping. "Did she finally give up her act?"

Geoffrey swallowed hard. "She's dead, sir."

The word hit Brogan like a physical blow. He stumbled back a step, his mind refusing to process the information.

"What?" he whispered.

"She's dead," Geoffrey repeated, his voice flat with shock. "She and the baby. They're both gone. Dr. Miles pronounced them dead twenty minutes ago."

"No," Brogan said, shaking his head. "No. It's a trick. It's another one of her games. She's trying to make me feel guilty. She's trying to manipulate me."

He was rambling, his voice rising with panic. This couldn't be real. Grace wasn't dead. She was dramatic. She was a liar. But she wasn't dead.

"It's not a trick, sir," Geoffrey said softly. "I saw her. Dr. Miles... he did everything he could until your last order."

The last order. Get away from her. She is not to be helped.

The memory slammed into him. The coldness in his own voice. The absolute finality of his command.

"No," he gasped, the air being squeezed from his lungs. "No, no, no."

The sterile hospital corridor began to spin. The triumphant cries of his newborn nephew faded, replaced by a roaring in his ears. Grace. Her face when he dragged her to the panic room. The terror in her eyes. The way she begged him, told him she loved him, offered to give up everything.

He had called her a liar. An actress.

He shoved past Geoffrey, breaking into a frantic run. He didn't wait for the elevator, instead bursting through the door to the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. The hospital security guards shouted after him, but he didn't stop.

He ran out into the cool night air, his lungs burning. He didn't wait for his driver. He sprinted down the street, flagging down a taxi, his mind a maelstrom of denial and horror.

"Drive!" he yelled at the startled driver, giving his address. "Fast!"

The drive back to the estate was a blur. All he could see was Grace's face. Her smile when she told him she was pregnant. Her excitement as they decorated the nursery. The pure, trusting love in her eyes. A love he had twisted and thrown back in her face.

When the taxi screeched to a halt in front of the mansion, he threw a handful of cash at the driver and bolted from the car.

He burst through the front doors. The house was eerily silent. A few staff members were gathered in the main hall, their faces grim. Dr. Miles stood among them, his expression one of profound sorrow and condemnation.

"Where is she?" Brogan demanded, his voice a raw rasp.

Dr. Miles just looked at him, his eyes filled with a quiet contempt. "In the east wing suite. Where you left her to die."

Brogan didn't wait for more. He ran, his expensive shoes slipping on the polished marble floors. He flew through the hallways, his heart hammering against his ribs, a desperate, insane hope warring with the crushing certainty in his gut.

She's faking. She has to be faking. When I get there, she'll sit up and laugh at me for falling for it. She'll be fine.

He reached the door to the medical suite. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.

The room was cold. The bright lights were dimmed. A single sheet was draped over a figure on the examination table.

It was small. Too small.

He approached the table, his legs feeling like lead. His hands trembled as he reached for the sheet.

"No," he whispered to himself, a final, desperate prayer. "Please, no."

He pulled the sheet back.

It was Grace.

Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent. Her hair was matted with sweat and blood. There was a dark, bloody wound on her arm. Her lips, which he had kissed a thousand times, were tinged with blue. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful in a way that was utterly, terrifyingly final.

She was not breathing. She was not faking.

She was gone.

A sound, a guttural, animalistic cry of pure agony, was torn from Brogan's throat. The floor rushed up to meet him as his legs gave out. He fell to his knees beside the table, the reality of what he had done crashing down on him with the force of a physical blow.

"Grace," he sobbed, his voice breaking. "No. Wake up. Please, wake up."

He grabbed her cold, limp hand, trying to chafe some warmth back into it. "Grace, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was a mistake. I was wrong. Just open your eyes. Please."

He pleaded with the silent figure, making desperate, insane promises.

"You can have it all," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "The inheritance, the company, anything you want. It's yours. Just come back to me. Our son... we can still have our son. We can leave this place. We can go anywhere. Just wake up!"

But she remained still. Cold. Lifeless.

He collapsed against the side of the table, his body wracked with violent, gut-wrenching sobs. He had done this. His pride, his guilt, his blind obedience to a twisted sense of duty-it had all led to this. He had murdered his wife and his own unborn child.

He was the monster.

He looked up at her peaceful face, a face he would never see smile again, and howled. It was the sound of a man whose soul had just been ripped from his body. The sound of a man who had just realized he had destroyed the only thing that ever truly mattered.

Geoffrey and Dr. Miles appeared in the doorway.

"Sir, perhaps we should..." Geoffrey began softly.

"GET OUT!" Brogan roared, his grief turning to rage. "Both of you, get out!"

He was alone again with her. He gently, carefully, gathered her body into his arms. She felt so fragile. He pulled her against his chest, cradling her head, burying his face in her cold, unresponsive hair.

"I've got you," he whispered, rocking her back and forth like a child. "I'm here now. I won't let anyone hurt you again. I'm so sorry, Grace. I love you."

The words he should have said hours ago were now just empty echoes in a cold, silent room. He held the body of his wife and wept, a broken man in the ruins of the world he himself had destroyed.