Chapter 4

Money and diamonds could open almost any door.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I got a reply.

The contact sent me an encrypted chat ID and a time to log in.

The next afternoon, I told them I wanted some sun in the garden.

Trista must've thought I'd been well-behaved lately. She agreed, but with two bodyguards trailing behind me.

I sat on a wicker chair in the garden, wrapping a blanket over my legs and hands.

Hidden beneath the blanket was an old phone that used to belong to one of the maids—I couldn't even remember when I'd swiped it. I logged into the encrypted app.

Right on cue, a video call request popped up.

I tapped to answer.

An old, familiar face appeared on the screen—Talia.

She looked nervous, almost scared, the moment she saw me. "Mrs. Carline—"

"Talia, don't be afraid," I said, keeping my voice low and fast. "I just want to ask you something.

"Your grandson's tuition and living expenses for the next four years—I'll cover them all. I only have one condition: tell me what the Carline family's secret is."

Talia flinched, her cloudy eyes full of hesitation.

The promise of money, along with my desperate tone, finally broke her resistance. "Okay, I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

Her voice trembled as she spoke.

"When Mr. Howell Carline was alive, he hired a very powerful wizard to read the family's fortune. The wizard said the Carline family had a special destiny—that its strength came from the women, while the men were weak. If the family wanted lasting success, it must always be led by a woman.

"If a man inherits the family business, it will fall apart within three generations.

"So, Mr. Howell Carline wrote in his will that everything in the Carline family could only be passed down to the firstborn daughter. The firstborn son was considered a curse."

My heart sank like a stone. "So what happens to the firstborn son?"

Talia's face went pale, and her lips quivered. "When Mr. Howell Carline was alive, he was a kind man. He just sent his newborn first son far away and forbade him from ever coming back. But when it came to Mrs. Trista Carline..."

Her voice shook. "Her first child was also a boy. He died not long after he was born."

Talia's tone turned trembling, almost broken. "They told everyone the baby was just weak, but the truth is... Mrs. Trista Carline killed him with her own hands. She was afraid the baby would threaten Vince's position—and even more afraid the rest of the family would use that old rule against her."

It felt like lightning struck me. My whole body went cold.

I couldn't believe it. The woman I'd respected, the one I'd treated like family, had killed her own child with her bare hands. "What about Vince? Why is he—"

"He's the second son, so he doesn't count. That's why he was allowed to live and take over the family business," Talia said with a heavy sigh. "But now, you're pregnant. And your first child is a boy."

Then everything made sense.

They weren't afraid that my son was sick. They were afraid of him being alive.

Just his existence was a threat to the Carline family's old rule. He was a danger to his little sister's future.

To protect the family fortune—and to make sure her future granddaughter could inherit everything without question—Trista was going to do it again. She was going to get rid of my son.

And Vince, my husband—he knew everything. He'd been in on it the whole time.

Every lie, every fake tear, was just a way to keep me calm until they could quietly kill the child growing inside me.

A wave of nausea rose in my throat.

I hung up, stumbled to the flowerbed, and threw up until the world spun.

It felt like I was vomiting up every last ounce of love I'd ever had for this marriage—and for Vince.

[Now you finally get it,] the cold, bitter voice echoed from inside my belly. [So what are you going to do now? Keep playing the fool and let them destroy you?]

I wiped my mouth and straightened up.

The sun shone down on me, but I couldn't feel a trace of warmth.

The thought of fighting the entire Carline family while pregnant terrified me; the fear crashed over me like an icy wave.

But every time my babies moved inside me, it reminded me that I couldn't give up.

I wouldn't let them control me anymore.

They wanted my son dead, huh? Fine. Then I'd take my children and run from this hell.

I went back to my room, my face calm again.

From that moment on, every word I spoke and every move I made was part of the act.

The little strategist in my belly became my only ally.

[Stupid woman, if you want to live, you'll listen to me,] he snapped, a little impatient. [That old woman is evil. She hated me more than I could ever handle.]

Using his instincts and my own careful observations, we started piecing together an escape plan.

During one of my walks, I'd found a blind spot in the security cameras—at the far-right corner of the backyard wall.

Meanwhile, my son had "heard" the maids gossiping about a spare key for the minivan.

And over the past few weeks, by pretending to be obedient and harmless, I'd quietly learned Trista's medication schedule and the guards' shift changes.

My son could sense the short five-minute gap at 3 a.m. when the bodyguards switched shifts—when their "presence" was weakest.

[Those five minutes are our only chance,] he said.

So, I began to prepare.