Chapter 1

My billionaire husband locked me in a mental asylum to steal my baby, handed my newborn to his mistress, and told the world I was crazy.

After I died on that cold asylum floor, God gave me a second chance.

This time, I won't love him. This time, I'm taking everything.

The pregnancy test showed two lines.

Last time, when I saw this result, I had cried tears of joy, pressing the test against my chest like it was a love letter from heaven. I had called Alexander immediately, voice shaking with happiness.

He'd said, "Good. Stay home and rest. I'll take care of everything."

"Take care of everything" meant moving his mistress, Vivienne, into the guest house three blocks away. It meant forging psychiatric evaluation documents. It meant having me declared "mentally unstable and unfit for motherhood" when I was eight months pregnant.

I stared at the two lines now and felt nothing but ice in my veins.

I flushed the test down the toilet.

"Mrs. Sinclair, your hormone levels confirm you're approximately five weeks along." Dr. Lena, my private physician, studied me carefully. "Shall I inform Mr. Sinclair?"

"No."

Dr. Lena blinked. "But the prenatal protocol your husband set up requires—"

"I said no." I met her eyes. "And I need you to prescribe the termination medication."

Her face went pale. "Mrs. Sinclair, are you sure? Mr. Sinclair has been... very clear that he wants an heir. If he finds out you—"

"He won't find out. Because this baby is not going to exist."

Last time, this baby was my death sentence.

Alexander needed a biological heir to unlock his grandfather's $8.7 billion trust. The will was specific: a child born within the legal marriage, confirmed by blood.

I was the legal wife. Vivienne was not.

So he kept me alive just long enough to deliver, then threw me away like medical waste.

The memory of my son's first cry—heard through the asylum's concrete walls because they'd taken him from me in the delivery room—hit me so hard I gripped the exam table.

I never held him. Not once.

Vivienne posted photos the next day. "Welcome to the world, baby Sinclair! Mommy and Daddy love you so much."

The internet celebrated. The Sinclair PR team confirmed the "happy family."

And I screamed in a padded room until my voice broke, and nobody came.

Six months later, I was dead. Heart failure, they said. Neglect, my body said. They didn't even give me a proper funeral.

"Mrs. Sinclair?" Dr. Lena's concerned voice pulled me back. "You're crying."

I wiped my face quickly.

"The medication, Dr. Lena. Today."

She hesitated, then handed me the first pill with shaking hands.

I swallowed it dry.

As the pill went down, my phone buzzed.

Alexander.

[Come to the penthouse. I need you tonight. Grandfather is visiting tomorrow, and he wants to see us "together."]

I stared at the message—the same message he'd sent last time, word for word.

Last time, I'd rushed home, changed into the dress he liked, and smiled for his grandfather like a trained dog.

This time, I typed back:

[I want a divorce.]

Three seconds of silence. Then my phone rang.

I didn't answer.

It rang again. And again. And again.

Then a single text:

[Elara. Don't test me. You know what I can do to you.]

Yes, Alexander. I know exactly what you can do.

That's why this time, I'm going to destroy you first.