Chapter 2

Aubrey Ellison POV:

The next morning, Frida approached my hospital bed with a bouquet of lilies, their funereal scent filling the small room. Her eyes were puffy, her expression a careful mask of contrition.

"Aubrey, I can't say how sorry I am," she began, her voice a practiced whisper. "If I had known..."

"Known what, Frida?" I cut her off, my own voice flat and devoid of emotion. "That a woman bleeding profusely while seven months pregnant might be a serious situation?"

She flinched, and Gordon, who stood protectively by her side, shot me a warning look.

I ignored him, my gaze fixed on my husband. "I tried to call you, Gordon. Over and over. The nurses tried. Where were you?"

Before he could answer, Frida stepped forward, wringing her hands. "He was with me," she said, her voice laced with a strange sort of pride. "My anxiety... I have a special panic button that dials directly to Gordon's phone. My father arranged it. He's the only one who can talk me down."

A panic button. A direct line to my husband, a privilege not even I, his wife, possessed. The bitter irony was a physical taste in my mouth. Years ago, he had been my emergency contact, the first person I would have called in any crisis. Now, he was someone else's.

"So while I was signing consent forms for a surgery that could have killed me and our son," I said slowly, letting each word land, "you were coaching a twenty-year-old through a panic attack brought on by a cat."

"That's not fair, Aubrey," Gordon snapped, his jaw tight. "We'll make up for it. Once you and the baby are home, everything will go back to normal. I promise."

His promise was an empty sound in the sterile room. I tried to shift in the bed, and a sharp pain radiated from the C-section incision. I winced, a hiss of breath escaping my teeth.

Gordon started to reach for me, but I held up a hand. "Don't. Don't touch me."

His face hardened. "What is your problem? Frida has apologized. I'm here now. What more do you want?"

"I want to know what she's doing in our house, Gordon," I said, my voice rising. "I want to know why you've given her a key and a panic button and a place in our lives that she has no right to."

"She is the daughter of my most important political ally!" he thundered, his politician's voice booming in the small space. "And she is a troubled young woman who looks up to me! Your accusations are insulting and baseless." He took a deep breath, visibly composing himself. "Now, I think you owe Frida an apology for your tone."

An apology. He wanted me to apologize. The world tilted on its axis, a nauseating lurch of disbelief and fury.

Frida, ever the master of manipulation, placed a delicate hand on Gordon's arm. "No, Gordon, it's okay," she said, her voice watery. "Aubrey's just been through a lot. She's hormonal. It's understandable." She turned her doe-eyes on me. "Maybe... maybe it would be better if I moved out. I don't want to be a source of tension."

It was a brilliant move. A checkmate.

"Don't be ridiculous," Gordon said immediately, his voice softening as he looked down at her. "You're not going anywhere. This is your home for as long as you need it to be." He then fixed his cold eyes on me. "This discussion is over, Aubrey. You will treat Frida with respect, or there will be consequences. Do you understand me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He took Frida's hand, squeezed it reassuringly, and led her out of the room, leaving me alone with the scent of lilies and the chilling echo of his threat.

I watched them go, my body aching, my heart a hollow cavity in my chest. I remembered the day he' d first brought it up, just two months ago. We were in the kitchen, and I was sketching designs for a new pediatric wing at the city hospital.

"Aubrey, honey," he began, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "I have a favor to ask."

He' d explained that Senator Rodriguez' s daughter, Frida, was having a difficult time. A bad breakup, crippling anxiety. The senator thought a change of scenery, an internship in a stable, supportive environment, would do her good.

"Our house, Gordon?" I had asked, my pencil hovering over the paper. "With the baby coming? I'm not sure it's a good time."

"It's the perfect time," he'd insisted, his voice persuasive and warm. "It would mean the world to the senator. His endorsement could be the thing that wins us the election, Aubrey. Think of the future we could build for our son."

He had framed it as a sacrifice for our family. A small inconvenience for a greater good. Against my better judgment, I had relented.

The day Frida moved in, she found me alone in the living room. She was polite, almost shy, until the movers had left and Gordon was on a conference call. Then, the mask slipped.

"You have a beautiful home," she'd said, her eyes roaming over the space with a proprietary air. "Gordon has wonderful taste." She paused, her gaze landing on me, sharp and assessing. "I love him, you know. I have since I was a little girl. He just... got a little lost along the way."

My hand, resting on my swollen belly, had tightened.

"He needs someone who understands his ambition," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Someone who won't hold him back with... domestic things. A man like Gordon has a destiny. He has to choose what's more important: a family, or a legacy. And I'll make sure he chooses me."

She'd smiled then, a sweet, chilling expression. "He told me he feels things with me he's never felt with anyone else. A real connection."

Her words had been like a slow-acting poison. A seed of doubt planted in the foundation of my marriage. An hour later, the first premature contractions had begun.

Now, lying in the hospital bed, the memory was stark and clear. It wasn't just a coincidence. Her words, her presence, the stress she had deliberately inflicted-it was all connected. She had wanted to hurt me, to destabilize me. And she had succeeded.

My hand went to my phone. I wasn't just a hormonal, grieving wife anymore. I was a mother with a child to protect.

And I would find the truth, no matter who it destroyed.