Chapter 2

Emerson Keller POV:

I checked myself out of the hospital the next morning against medical advice. Keenan' s reply had come within minutes, a simple, unequivocal, "On my way. Don' t move." But I couldn' t stay there, not in that sterile room that had witnessed so much of my manufactured grief.

When Barron arrived back at our penthouse, he found me in the master bedroom, standing before the fireplace. I was feeding our wedding album to the flames, page by page. The glossy photos of our smiling faces curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

"Emerson! What are you doing?" He rushed forward, trying to snatch the book from my hands, but I held it fast. The heat licked at my fingers.

"Symbolism," I said, my voice as empty as I felt. I tossed the entire ruined album into the fire. It went up with a whoosh.

He reached into the flames to retrieve it, a desperate, foolish gesture. He yelped, pulling his hand back, the skin on his fingertips red and blistering. He stared at me, his sea-storm eyes filled with a pain that, for the first time, I knew was a lie.

"My love, what' s wrong? Talk to me," he pleaded, cradling his burned hand. "Whatever it is, we can fix it. I' ll make it right. I swear."

I looked at him, at the man who had meticulously orchestrated the destruction of my life while whispering promises of love. The hate was a physical thing, a cold, heavy weight in my chest. He was right. We couldn't fix this. But I was going to make him pay for it.

"There' s nothing to fix," I said, turning away from the fire, from him. I walked towards the bathroom, my movements stiff. "I' m just tired, Barron."

As I closed the bathroom door, I felt a sharp, twisting cramp in my abdomen, more vicious than any I' d felt before. I braced myself against the marble vanity, nausea rising in my throat. My phone buzzed on the counter. A message from an unknown number.

It was a video. My hand trembled as I pressed play.

The screen filled with Cydney Velazquez' s face. She was smirking, her dark eyes glittering with malice. She was filming herself, and behind her, I could see the unmistakable sterile backdrop of a hospital room. She panned the camera down, and my breath caught in my throat.

She was pregnant. Very pregnant.

The camera moved back to her face. "Heard about number ten," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Such a shame. Seems like you just can' t hold on to anything, can you, Emerson? Not your company, not your parents... not even a baby. But don' t worry. Barron and I will have enough family for all of us."

A wave of blackness washed over me. The cramp in my stomach intensified into an agonizing, tearing pain. Blood. There was so much blood. It soaked through my clothes, pooling on the cold marble floor. I collapsed, my body convulsing, the phone clattering from my hand. My last conscious thought was a desperate, primal scream as I fumbled to dial 911.

I woke up to the hushed voices of nurses outside my hospital room door. The pain was gone, replaced by a hollow, medicated numbness.

"...hemorrhage was severe. She' s lucky to be alive," one nurse was saying. "But Mr. Carroll... I' ve never seen a man so frantic."

"I know," the other whispered. "He practically carried Ms. Velazquez into the ER himself. She just had a little fall, but he demanded every top specialist be assigned to her. Said her well-being was his absolute top priority."

A bitter, hysterical laugh tried to bubble up from my chest, but it caught in my throat like a shard of glass. Of course. Cydney' s minor fall was his top priority. My life-threatening hemorrhage was a secondary concern. He had probably paused on his way to her room to order the lilies for mine. The thought was so grotesquely ironic, so perfectly Barron, that it was almost funny.

He had never once shown that level of panic for me. Concern, yes. Sadness, yes. But never the raw, primal fear of loss. Because he was never losing anything he truly valued. My pregnancies were just transactions. Cydney' s was the real investment.

I pushed myself out of the bed, my muscles screaming in protest. I ripped the IV from my arm, ignoring the sting. I had to see it for myself.

Pulling on a hospital gown, I shuffled out of my room and down the quiet, sterile hallway of the VIP wing. I followed the sound of his low, soothing voice to a room at the far end. The door was ajar.

I peered inside.

Barron was sitting on the edge of the bed, peeling an apple for Cydney with a small silver knife, the slices falling perfectly onto a plate. He was feeding them to her, piece by piece, like she was a delicate, precious doll. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, his touch infinitely tender.

"You have to be more careful," he murmured, his voice the one he used to reserve for me. "Nothing can happen to you. Or our baby."

Cydney pouted, a masterful performance of vulnerability. "It was just so stressful, Barron. Knowing she was home. It just puts me on edge. Maybe... maybe for the baby' s sake, she shouldn' t be there when I get out. The penthouse is so big, she could live in the guest wing. Out of sight."

My blood ran cold. She wanted to relegate me to the guest quarters of my own home. My home. The home he had bought with the money he' d made from destroying my family.

I couldn' t breathe. I stumbled back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a sob. The movement caught his eye.

His head snapped up. "Emerson."

He was on his feet in an instant, his face a mask of shock and something else-guilt. He rushed towards me, but I was already turning, fleeing down the hallway as fast as my battered body would allow.

"Emerson, wait! It' s not what you think!" he called after me.

I didn' t stop. I ran, fueled by five years of lies and a pain so profound it threatened to tear me apart. I burst through the stairwell door, my only thought to get away, to disappear.

He caught me on the landing, his hand clamping down on my arm. His grip was like steel.

"Let go of me," I hissed, my voice raw.

"Not until you listen," he said, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Cydney is... she agreed to be a surrogate for us. After all your miscarriages, I thought... I wanted to surprise you. With our baby."

The lie was so audacious, so insulting, so utterly contemptuous of my intelligence, that I could only stare at him. A surrogate. He was calling his mistress, the woman he' d paid his "debt" to with the lives of my children, a surrogate.

"A surprise?" I whispered, the words dripping with venom. "You wanted to surprise me."

"Yes," he said, his eyes pleading, desperate for me to believe the fantasy he was weaving. "Everything I do, Emerson, is for you. Always."

Before I could respond, a scream echoed from the hallway above us. Cydney' s voice. "Barron! Help! I think I' m bleeding!"

His head whipped around. His entire body tensed. For a split second, he was torn, his gaze flickering between me and the sound of her voice.

It was only a second. But in that second, I saw his choice. I saw everything.

Then, from below, a panicked shout. A hospital trolley, laden with heavy oxygen tanks, had broken loose from an orderly on the floor below. It was careening down the ramp towards the stairwell, directly towards us.

There was no time to think. Only to react.

In that final, clarifying moment, Barron Carroll made his choice. He didn' t push me to safety. He didn' t try to shield us both.

He released my arm and threw himself in front of Cydney, who had appeared at the top of the stairs. He became her human shield.

And he left me to face the impact alone.

The world exploded in a cacophony of screeching metal and shattering glass. The force of the collision threw me against the concrete wall. My head slammed against the railing, and a searing pain shot through my body.

As darkness consumed me, the last thing I saw was Barron, already on his feet, ignoring me completely, his arms wrapped around a whimpering Cydney, whispering words of comfort into her hair. He didn' t even glance back.

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