Chapter 2

Trista stood in the doorway, the two bodyguards looming behind her. Her smile was cold and sharp.

"Lizzie, who are you calling?" she asked, stepping closer with each click of her heels. Each step echoed in my chest like a drumbeat.

Instinctively, I tried to hide the phone behind my back.

But she didn't even give me a chance. One look from her, and a bodyguard lunged forward, yanking it from my hand.

Trista took the phone, glanced at the screen, and smirked. "Rita?"

Her laugh was soft and chilling. "Looks like I've been too nice to you. You've forgotten your place."

Then, right in front of me, she hurled the phone to the floor.

It shattered instantly, pieces scattering across the tiles.

But she wasn't done. She pressed her heel down on it—slowly, deliberately—grinding it into dust.

"I'll get rid of anyone or anything that might distract you while you're pregnant," she said calmly, as if she were talking about something trivial.

Then she turned and walked away, every step graceful, detached, heartless.

I stared at the broken pieces on the floor. The blood in my body turned to ice.

I was completely trapped.

That night, when Vince came home, Trista told him everything.

I thought—hoped—he'd at least defend me.

But he just listened quietly. Then he came over, knelt in front of me, and said softly, "Lizzie, Mom's just doing what's best for you. The most important thing right now is for you to rest and take care of the baby. Don't overthink it."

His voice was gentle, yet it froze me to the core.

I looked straight at him and said, word by word, "Vince, I'm your wife, not a tool for your family to have a baby."

That gentle look on his face finally cracked.

"How can you think that? I love you, Lizzie," he said.

The mean voice sneered from my belly, [Love? His love was about locking you up and making sure one of your babies died.]

I closed my eyes. I couldn't bear to look at his fake face anymore.

After that, their surveillance tightened.

The two bodyguards stood outside my door all day and night. I couldn't even shut the bathroom door.

I started a hunger strike—it was the only way I felt I could fight back.

On the first day, Trista just watched me with cold, unreadable eyes.

On the second day, she began to threaten me.

"Lizzie, don't be stupid. If you starve my grandchild, I'll make your whole family pay," she snapped.

My parents were my one soft spot. I stared at her through burning eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," Trista said, dripping with contempt.

She slammed a file onto the table. "Your parents' little restaurant didn't do so well on its last health inspection."

I shook with anger, but I had no choice—I had to give in.

I forced myself to eat, though every bite felt like I was swallowing knives.

I had to find a way out. I couldn't let them win.

A plan slowly took shape in my mind.

That afternoon, while the maid wasn't looking, I slipped some shower gel onto the bathroom floor.

Then I staged a fall—hard.

"Ouch!" I screamed, clutching my stomach.

The maid went pale and bolted from the room, shrieking for help.

Vince and Trista rushed in seconds later.

When Vince saw me on the floor and the small stain of blood spreading beneath me, his face turned ashen.

"Quick! Call the family doctor!" Trista shouted.

My heart dropped. The family doctor—again.

I had been hoping they would panic and take me to the nearest public hospital.

But I had lost my bet.

My mind was racing as I tried to figure out how to use this "injury" to create another chance.

The family doctor, Fletcher Barker, showed up quickly.

He examined me thoroughly, then turned to Vince and Trista and shook his head. "That was a bad fall. It has affected her pregnancy. She needs strict bed rest right away. I recommend an IV drip with nutrients to stabilize the baby."

I lay there, my whole body cold and heavy.

Inside, the mean voice growled angrily. [Idiot. You really thought they'd fall for that, huh? A stunt like this will only make things worse.]

I closed my eyes in despair.

The cold liquid flowed slowly down the tube and into my veins.

Soon, a deep, unnatural drowsiness started to pull me under.

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

Right before I blacked out, I heard the soft, trembling voice of the little one. [Brother, I feel so sick. My body is burning up.]

Then came the harsh voice, roaring in fury. [Damn it! They're drugging us! This drug's meant for me! They're trying to kill me!]

My mind flickered in and out of darkness, my body burning like fire.

No, I couldn't pass out.

I gathered every ounce of strength I had and bit down on my tongue—hard.

The sharp pain snapped me awake for a moment.

I opened my eyes. The room was empty.

The IV bag still hung beside me, cold liquid dripping into the back of my hand.

That was it. That was what they were using to kill my child.

My hand shook as I reached over and yanked the needle out.

The pain shot through me like lightning, my vision flashing black. A burning ache tore through my veins.

I ignored it. I forced myself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face again and again, trying to stay awake.

But the drug was strong. My body kept getting hotter, and my arms and legs felt weaker and weaker.

Inside me, even the harsh voice was fading. [Hang on, you stupid woman. Don't fall asleep.]

I slid down against the cold tile wall, gasping for breath.

Before long, I heard footsteps pounding outside the door.

"Lizzie! Open the door! Lizzie!"

It was Vince's voice—tight with panic.

I stayed silent.

Then came Trista's sharp, commanding tone. "Break the door down!"

A second later, with a deafening bang, the bathroom door burst open.