Chapter 2

Pandemonium reigned in the ballroom, press flashbulbs nearly blinding me.

Gideon slammed his cane hard against the polished marble floor in outrage, while Genevieve rushed over to grasp my uninjured hand.

"Maren, dear, you've suffered such humiliation. ‘Callum' must have completely lost his mind!"

"Grandfather, Grandmother, I'm fine." I gently pulled my hand away.

My voice was quiet, dead silent without a flicker of panic.

"Women of the Prescott family do not lose their composure in public."

Offering a polite nod to the elders, I strode out of the Ritz-Carlton, completely unfazed by the mocking stares of New York's elite.

The moment the sedan door shut, every ounce of warmth vanished from my eyes.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Mark, my most trusted executive assistant.

"Listen closely, Mark. Buy out or suppress every piece of press footage from the Ritz-Carlton tonight. I don't want a single negative headline about the Prescott Group hitting tomorrow's news."

"Next, drop high-definition wiretaps and tracking bugs into the Vance penthouse—specifically the master suite, study, and the Porsche. Do it quietly."

"Understood, Ms. Prescott," Mark replied without a second's pause.

"One more thing," I added, leaning back against the leather seats while lightly touching my bandaged hand. "Book me an appointment with NYC's top private OB-GYN. Absolute discretion required."

Over the past week, bouts of nausea and extreme fatigue had been hitting me out of nowhere.

I originally assumed it was burn-out from caring for "Callum," but now, a terrifying suspicion was taking root in my head.

The next afternoon, inside a private clinic exam room.

The senior doctor handed me an evaluation report, a warm smile on her face.

"Congratulations, Ms. Prescott. You're pregnant—just reached eight weeks. The baby's vitals are remarkably strong."

Eight weeks.

That meant this child was conceived during our trip to Santorini, just a week before the disaster at sea.

This was the only piece of Callum left in this world.

Sitting in the leather chair, my hand gently rested over my still-flat belly.

At that moment, the ice around my heart shattered as if struck by a heavy sledgehammer, tears finally pouring down unchecked.

Yet within minutes, I wiped them away.

Securing the paperwork, I returned to the penthouse.

By the time I finished clearing corporate emails, it was already 9 PM.

"Callum" hadn't returned home since storming out of the gala last night, claiming he had "business to settle."

Walking straight into the master suite, I slipped in an invisible earbud and opened the live wiretap feed.

Instantly, sickeningly familiar voices streamed into my ears.

"Oh, babe! The way you pushed her into that champagne tower at the gala was brilliant!"

It was Talia. Gone was her signature fragile, breathy tone, replaced by smug, wicked glee.

"Maren's always acting so high and mighty! Seeing her collapse into that glass tower looking like a broken mess yesterday—God, her face was priceless!"

Then came "Callum"—no, Grant's mocking snort.

"Hmph. Arrogant bitch really thinks the world revolves around her. If it weren't for the massive Prescott family trust, looking at her face for one second would make me throw up."

The feed picked up the sound of a couch sinking, followed by wet, sloppy kissing and rustling fabric.

"So when are you finally divorcing her?"

Talia pouted softly. "Watching you pretend to be Callum and sleep under the same roof with her drives me crazy with jealousy."

"What's the rush?" Grant wheezed out heavily.

"Callum's rotting at the bottom of the ocean. All I have to do is use Callum's identity to trick that idiot woman into signing over the power-of-attorney documents."

"Once the Prescott estate and their family's core offshore trusts are transferred into my name, I'll kick her to the curb, and we disappear with the cash. Isn't that a better plan."

"Oh, you're so bad, babe," Talia giggled maliciously. "You had this all mapped out the moment you shoved Callum off the yacht, didn't you?"

"Dead men tell no tales."

Grant's voice held a chilling, psychopathic edge.

"My dear little brother died never realizing I'd step right into his shoes and steal his life."

"The coast guard and search teams were bribed off weeks ago. Nobody's digging up anything in that stretch of water. Once that clueless woman hands over the Prescott trust, we'll use Callum's identity to legally liquidate his assets."

"He brought this on himself. Always playing the golden boy, stealing the spotlight and legacy that should've been mine."

"But babe, what if she notices you're acting different?" Talia suddenly fretted.

"She won't notice a thing. She's too busy riding the emotional high of having her ‘husband' back from the dead to suspect anything."

The moment the sentence ended, the feed dissolved into vulgar panting and heavy rustling.

Sitting at my vanity table, my fists clenched so hard my manicured nails cut deep into my palms. Blood trickled down onto the marble counter, but I didn't feel a throb of pain.

The truth was far uglier, far more monstrous than I'd envisioned.

These two psychopaths didn't just murder Callum in cold blood—they were actively plotting to gut the fortune my family built over generations.

Lifting my chin, I met the icy glare of my reflection in the mirror.

Resting my palm gently over my stomach, I whispered softly, "Callum… I will make them pay in blood."