Chapter 2

A sharp pain tore through my abdomen, doubling me over. I clutched the edge of my grandmother's antique writing desk, knuckles white with strain. The room spun around me as another wave hit, more violent than the first.

"No," I whispered, one hand moving instinctively to my stomach. "Please, no."

I'd been so focused on my mother's death, on Brooks's betrayal, that I'd barely noticed the symptoms. The fatigue, the nausea—I'd dismissed them as grief.

My phone lay on the floor where I'd dropped it after the hospital's call. With trembling fingers, I reached for it, dialing emergency services.

"My wife is pregnant," I heard Brooks's voice from somewhere far away. "She's having severe abdominal pain."

But that wasn't possible. Brooks wasn't here. He was across the street with Anastasia.

I struggled to my feet, needing to get to the hospital myself. The brownstone door seemed miles away. Each step sent fresh agony radiating through my core.

Through the window, I could still see them—Brooks and Anastasia, champagne flutes raised high. Their laughter floated across the street, crystal clear despite the distance.

"To us," I heard Brooks say, his voice carrying on the night air. "To new beginnings."

Another contraction—or whatever this was—drove me to my knees.

"Our child," I whispered, feeling something warm and wet between my thighs. "Our baby."

I crawled toward the door, leaving a trail of blood on the hardwood floor my grandmother had polished every Sunday. The phone slipped from my grasp again, clattering against the threshold as darkness closed in around me.

Brooks's laughter echoed in my ears as consciousness faded.

* * *

Silk brushed against my face. Soft, expensive silk.

I opened my eyes to darkness, confined space. My hands moved instinctively, feeling fabric all around me—suits, dresses, shoes lined up in perfect rows.

A closet. Brooks's walk-in closet.

I pushed against the door, flooding the space with light. The bedroom beyond was unfamiliar yet hauntingly familiar—our bedroom from years ago, before the penthouse, before everything changed.

"Emilia?" Brooks's voice called from the bathroom. "Are you almost ready? We're supposed to meet my parents for lunch."

I froze, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I looked... different. Younger. My hair longer, my face free of the fine lines that had crept in over seven years of marriage.

"What's wrong?" Brooks appeared in the doorway, water droplets still clinging to his hair. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I hadn't. But I remembered everything—the betrayal, my mother's death, the baby I'd lost. The pain that had torn through me as I collapsed alone in the brownstone.

"Brooks," I said carefully, "what day is it?"

He frowned, checking his watch. "Saturday. The day before our engagement party. Why?"

The engagement party. Where he would propose to Anastasia in front of New York's elite. Where my life had begun its inevitable spiral into tragedy.

"I need to make some calls," I said, my mind racing ahead. "Important calls."

* * *

"Mrs. Grant?" The Swiss doctor's accent was thick but his English precise. "We have reviewed your mother's medical records. She is an excellent candidate for our experimental treatment program."

I paced the length of my grandmother's garden, keeping my voice low. "And the transfer? Can you arrange it immediately?"

"Of course. We have partnerships with several American hospitals. I can have a medical transport team there within 48 hours."

I glanced back at the brownstone where Brooks was meeting with his business partner. He hadn't questioned my sudden interest in "charitable foundations" or my trips to the bank.

"Perfect," I said. "And the payment?"

"We require half upfront, half upon admission. The account details are—"

I memorized the numbers, already calculating which assets I could liquidate without raising suspicion. My grandmother's jewelry collection. The small trust fund she'd left me that Brooks didn't know about. The paintings in the attic—not my best work, but valuable enough.

"Mrs. Grant?" The doctor hesitated. "Is everything alright? You seem... determined."

"I am," I replied, watching through the window as Brooks laughed at something his partner said. "This is a matter of life and death."

Not just my mother's life. My own. And this time, I wouldn't let Brooks Campbell destroy either of us.

I ended the call and dialed another number—my grandmother's lawyer in Zurich. "Mr. Keller? It's Emilia Grant. I need to access the contingency fund immediately."

As I spoke, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the garden window—straight-backed, eyes clear and focused. The woman looking back at me wasn't the Emilia who had died alone on a hardwood floor.

She was someone new entirely.