Chapter 3

I spent the next week gathering evidence like a woman possessed.

Every receipt Dominic left in his suit pockets. Every late-night text notification that lit up his phone while he slept. Every charge on the black card — the jewelry, the hotel suites, the "business dinners" at restaurants with two-month waitlists.

I photographed everything. I stored copies in three separate cloud accounts, each under a different alias Diana had set up.

But Serena was watching me too.

She had a sixth sense for threats, a predator's instinct. She started following me around the penthouse, appearing in doorways, materializing in rooms I thought were empty.

"What are you doing on your phone, Viv?" she'd ask, her voice dripping with sweetness. "You're always on that thing. It can't be good for the baby."

"Reading," I'd say. "Pregnancy books."

"Mmm." She'd lean over my shoulder, trying to see my screen. "You should really put that down and rest. Dominic worries about you."

Dominic didn't worry about me. Dominic hadn't spoken to me directly in four days. He communicated through Serena now, as if she were his translator and I were a foreign inconvenience.

"Vivienne needs to eat more vegetables." "Vivienne should take her vitamins." "Vivienne looks pale — should we call the doctor?"

Always through Serena. Always with that possessive we.

On Thursday, I came home from a secret appointment with Diana to find the penthouse transformed. Serena had redecorated the living room. My mother's oil paintings — three landscapes she had painted during her years in Provence, the only pieces I had left of her — were gone. Replaced by enormous, soulless abstract prints in chrome frames.

"Where are my mother's paintings?" I asked Mrs. Park, my voice dangerously calm.

Mrs. Park couldn't meet my eyes. "Miss Blake said they were... dated. She had them moved to the storage unit with the nursery things."

I went to the storage unit. It was in the basement of the building, a climate-controlled room Dominic used for his wine collection.

The nursery items were there — the crib, the mobile, the boxes of baby clothes I had spent months collecting. All shoved into a corner, covered in dust sheets.

But my mother's paintings weren't there.

I called the building concierge. He checked the security footage.

"Mrs. Crane, the paintings were picked up this morning by a disposal service. Miss Blake arranged it. She said they were... being donated."

"Donated where?"

He hesitated. "She didn't specify a charity, ma'am. The disposal company she used... they don't typically handle donations."

They were gone. Thrown away. Three irreplaceable pieces of my mother's art, destroyed because Serena found them "dated."

I stood in that cold storage room, surrounded by the discarded pieces of my daughter's nursery, and let myself feel the rage. I didn't fight it. I didn't swallow it. I let it burn through me like a cleansing fire.

Then I called Diana.

"I need to move faster," I said.

"What happened?"

"She destroyed my mother's paintings. The originals. They're gone."

Diana was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, Vivienne. But paintings aren't grounds for —"

"I know. But I have something better." I took a breath. "I recorded a conversation. Between Dominic and Serena. She admitted — out loud — that she faked the paternity test. And he didn't deny it."

"You recorded it?"

"I've been leaving my phone recording in the bedroom every night since she moved in."

Silence. Then: "Send it to me. Now."

I sent the file. My hands were shaking, but my resolve was iron.

That evening, Dominic came home early. He was in a rare mood — almost cheerful. He poured himself a whiskey and sat down in the living room, in the chair that used to face my mother's painting of the lavender fields.

"The room looks better," he said, nodding at the new art. "Serena has excellent taste."

"She threw away my mother's paintings," I said from the kitchen doorway.

He didn't look up. "They were old, Vivienne. Everything in this apartment was old. It needed updating."

"They were originals. They were irreplaceable."

He took a sip of his whiskey. "Your mother painted as a hobby. They weren't valuable."

"They were valuable to me."

He finally looked at me, and the expression on his face — impatient, dismissive, faintly disgusted — was one I recognized. It was the same look he'd given me in my first life, in the weeks before I died. The look that said: You are a problem I'm tired of solving.

"Vivienne, I don't have the energy for this. Serena is trying to make this a nicer home for all of us. For the baby. You should be grateful."

"For the baby?" I laughed — a sharp, broken sound. "You don't even believe this baby is yours."

His jaw tightened. "Because she's not."

"She is. And you know she is. You know Serena faked that test."

The air in the room changed. It became charged, electric, dangerous.

He set his glass down. Slowly. "What did you just say?"

"I heard you, Dominic. I heard both of you. In our bedroom. She told you she arranged the test. And you just sat there."

His face went white. Then red. He stood up, his full height towering over me.

"You were spying on me?"

"I was protecting myself. And our daughter."

He moved toward me, and instinctively, I stepped back. My hip hit the kitchen counter. I had nowhere to go.

"You're delusional," he said, his voice a low snarl. "Serena warned me about this. She said the pregnancy was making you paranoid, unstable —"

"Serena is a liar and you're a coward," I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.

His hand came up. I flinched, my arms wrapping around my belly.

He stopped. His hand hung in the air between us, trembling. Something flickered across his face — shame, maybe. Or just the calculation of a man who knew hitting a pregnant woman would look bad in court.

He lowered his hand. But his eyes were murderous.

"Get out of my sight," he whispered.

I didn't move.

"NOW!"

I walked past him, my chin high, my heart hammering. I made it to the hallway before my knees gave out. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, one hand on my belly.

The baby kicked. Hard. As if she knew.

I'm going to get us out, I told her silently. I promise.

From the living room, I heard Serena's voice, soft and soothing. "Dominic, darling, calm down. She's just trying to upset you. That's what unstable people do."

And then, the words that sealed my fate — or would have, if I hadn't already planned my escape.

"Maybe we should call Dr. Weston," Serena said. "Have her evaluated. For the baby's safety, of course."

Dr. Weston. The psychiatrist who, in my first life, had signed the papers declaring me mentally unfit. The papers that gave Dominic full medical authority over my pregnancy. The papers that allowed him to tell the doctors: save the baby, not the wife.

They were making their move. Ahead of schedule.

I had to run. Tonight.

I pulled out my phone and texted Diana: They're accelerating. I need the papers now. Tonight.

Her reply came in thirty seconds: Already done. Car will be at the service entrance at midnight. Don't bring anything you can't carry.

I looked down at my belly. Seven months pregnant. Alone. Running from a billionaire who owned half the city.

In my first life, this was where I surrendered.

In my second life, I texted back: I'll be there.