Chapter 2

I didn't sleep that night.

I sat in the dark of our bedroom — his bedroom now, because he hadn't slept beside me in weeks — and made a list on the back of a receipt. My hands were steady. My mind was a blade.

What I know:

1. Serena will fake a pregnancy in six weeks.

2. She will intercept the paternity test proving my baby is Dominic's.

3. She will forge documents declaring me mentally unfit.

4. Dominic will sign the order to prioritize "the surrogate's baby" over my life.

5. I will die on the table. Alone.

What I need:

1. My trust fund — $4.2 million, currently frozen by Dominic's lawyers under the prenup.

2. A new identity.

3. A doctor I can trust.

4. To get out before Serena makes her move.

At dawn, I heard them.

Laughter. Coming from the nursery — no, Serena's room now. Her tinkling, musical laugh, followed by Dominic's low chuckle.

I pressed my hand against my belly. The baby was quiet. Sleeping. She didn't know that her father had already decided she was worthless — because Serena had told him the baby wasn't his.

I got dressed and went downstairs. The housekeeper, Mrs. Park, was setting the breakfast table. She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.

"Mrs. Crane," she whispered, glancing toward the stairs. "Miss Blake asked me to pack up the nursery items. She wants them moved to the storage unit."

"The storage unit?" My voice was ice.

"She said the crib was 'depressing' and the murals were 'tacky.'" Mrs. Park's lip trembled. "I painted those murals myself, ma'am. You and I, together. It took us three weekends."

I remembered. Mrs. Park had been with me since the wedding. She was the closest thing I had to a mother in this city.

"Don't move anything," I said. "I'll handle it."

I walked to the nursery door and knocked. No answer. I opened it.

The room was unrecognizable. Serena had already rearranged everything. My mother's antique crib was shoved into the corner, draped with a sheet like a piece of discarded furniture. The hand-painted stars on the walls were half-covered by Serena's designer luggage — seven matching cases, Louis Vuitton, probably bought with Dominic's black card.

The mobile I had assembled — tiny silver stars and moons that played Clair de Lune — was on the floor. Cracked.

I picked it up, my fingers tracing the bent metal arm.

"Oh, you're up early!"

Serena appeared in the doorway in a silk robe, her hair perfectly tousled, a cup of coffee in her hand. She looked at the mobile in my hands and sighed.

"I'm so sorry about that. It fell when I was unpacking. These old things are so fragile."

"It didn't fall," I said quietly. "It was hanging from the ceiling."

She blinked, then shrugged. "Well, accidents happen. Especially in a room this cluttered. You really should declutter before the baby comes, Viv. All this stuff — it's not healthy."

I set the mobile down on the dresser. "When are you leaving?"

Her smile didn't waver. "Leaving? Dominic said I could stay as long as I need. Didn't he tell you?"

"He told me your apartment flooded."

"It did."

"I called your building manager this morning," I said. "There was no flood."

For a fraction of a second — so brief I would have missed it in my first life — her mask slipped. A flash of something cold and reptilian behind those doe eyes.

Then it was back. The sweet, concerned smile.

"Oh, Viv. Pregnancy brain is so real, isn't it? You must have called the wrong building." She reached out and patted my arm. "Don't stress yourself. It's bad for the baby."

She walked past me, her perfume — my perfume, the custom blend Dominic had made for me — trailing behind her like a poison cloud.

I stood in the ruins of my nursery and felt the familiar despair rising, the same hopelessness that had drowned me in my first life.

No. Not this time.

I took out my phone and called the one person Dominic couldn't control.

"Aunt Margaux," I said when she answered. "I need a lawyer. The best one you know. And I need them today."

Silence on the other end. Then, my aunt's voice, sharp as a scalpel: "What has that bastard done now?"

"Everything," I said. "And I'm going to make him pay for all of it."

That afternoon, I met the lawyer at a café three blocks from the penthouse. Her name was Diana Voss — mid-forties, steel-gray bob, a reputation for dismantling billionaires in divorce court.

"Your prenup is aggressive," Diana said, flipping through the documents I'd brought. "But it's not airtight. There's a fidelity clause — if you can prove infidelity, the prenup is void, and you're entitled to fifty percent of marital assets."

"I can prove it," I said.

"You'll need evidence. Hard evidence. Photos, messages, financial records showing gifts or payments to Miss Blake."

I thought of the necklace. My necklace. Around Serena's throat.

"I'll get it," I said.

Diana looked at me over her glasses. "Mrs. Crane, I have to ask. Are you safe? In that apartment, with him?"

I thought of his hand on my wrist. The flat, bored look in his eyes.

"For now," I said. "But I won't be for long."

"Then we move fast," Diana said, snapping the folder shut. "I'll have the papers drafted by Friday. But Vivienne — once you file, there's no going back. He will come after you with everything he has."

"I know," I said. "I've already died once because I didn't fight back. I'm not making that mistake again."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't ask.

When I got home, the penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.

I walked to the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

Through the crack, I saw them.

Dominic, sitting on the edge of our bed. Serena, standing between his knees, her fingers in his hair. His hands on her waist.

They weren't kissing. It was worse than kissing. It was intimate. Comfortable. Like they had done this a thousand times.

"She's getting suspicious," Serena murmured. "She called my building."

Dominic sighed. "I'll handle Vivienne."

"You always say that. But she's still here, Dominic. In our home."

Our home.

"After the baby's born," he said, his voice low. "We'll deal with it after the baby."

"And if the baby's yours?" Serena asked, her voice carefully neutral.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "It's not. You showed me the test."

"The test I arranged," she said. And then she laughed — a soft, private laugh that made my blood freeze.

She had just admitted it. Out loud. To his face.

And he didn't react. He just pulled her closer.

I stepped back from the door, my heart pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it.

He knew. He knew the test was fake. He knew Serena had arranged it. And he didn't care.

My baby — his baby — and he had chosen to believe a lie because the truth was inconvenient.

I pressed my back against the hallway wall and slid down to the floor, my hands cradling my belly.

In my first life, this revelation would have shattered me.

In my second life, it was ammunition.