offered opinions, my voice a hollow echo in the plush boutique. My body screamed in protest. The n

staff to send photos of every outfit to his phone for approval. He

d. She would glance at me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before turning back to her

vening gown, and the room started to spin. Black spot

machine. Chloe was there, her face a mask of wide-eyed pa

hone, her voice low and urgent. "Yes, Mr. Hayes. She fainte

sn't asking about me. He was soothing Chloe. "It's alright, baby. D

my hair. He didn't care. I could be dying, and his

ing me soup, reading to me until I fell asleep. That tenderness, that care-was it all a

e. He sent his driver to wait, a clear signal tha

y room, his expression gentle. H

re is a bit low, and you're dehydrated. B

r his glasses. "You're pregn

The beeping of the machine seemed to grow lo

careful. But there had been that one night, a few months ago, after a rare, good day

"Don't put this in the report. Not yet

A baby. This would have to change things, wouldn't i

dded, his eye

ng dread. This child was conceived not from love, but from a calculated ill

phone a dozen times. Not a single message from Julia

the hospital, a

esperate last-ditch effort to hold onto him? The flicker of hope

high in the entryway. And then I saw it. The door to my studio, my sanctuary, was ajar. A pink suitcase stood just inside. She