Chapter 1

I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to my belly. The Family doctor had just told me the truth: the "fertility supplements" my husband Dmitri had been feeding me for the past four months were killing my baby, not saving him.

"I want a divorce," I said, and pushed the papers across the desk to Dmitri.

Petra, his mother, slammed the table. "Never! Dmitri only married you to give this Family an heir!"

I smiled, small and finished. I pointed at the stars outside the window. "I used to think you were my whole sky. I know better now. I am my own light."

As I walked up the steps of the private jet, my suitcase in one hand, Dmitri's message lit up my screen: [Come home when you are done throwing your little tantrum.]

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The harsh smell of bleach burned my nose. Even though the sedation was still dragging me under, I could hear the loud, steady beeping of the heart machine.

I tried to lift my arm to touch my hurting stomach, but my muscles locked up, totally weak.

Six hours ago, when I tumbled down the long marble staircase, my hands shielding my belly could still feel the tiny flutters of my four-month-old baby.

"Don Gallagher, after this lost pregnancy, your wife's womb lining is incredibly thin," the doctor said. I heard the sound of him flipping through my secret medical file.

He stopped at the words "repeated lost pregnancies," tapped his pen on the desk, and added, "The unapproved fertility drugs you demanded clearly cause severe womb exhaustion. In the worst cases—"

"Are you saying she can never get pregnant again?" Dmitri asked. His cold, flat tone sent a deep chill down my spine.

I knew my husband's voice perfectly, but right now, there was zero warmth in it.

"The bone marrow transplant for Liana cannot wait," he said. "Last year's procedure failed. This time, we must make absolutely sure it works."

Liana was the daughter of Katarina—the orphan girl my late mother had taken in when I was twelve. I had always treated Katarina like my own flesh and blood.

The doctor pushed his glasses up as the sound of turning pages filled the quiet room. He said, "But Don, this is her third time losing a pregnancy—"

"I do not care," Dmitri said. His expensive Italian shoes clicked against the tile, each step pounding into my ears like a hammer.

I peeked through my eyelashes at him. He stood tall beside my bed, gripping my medical chart tightly. "Liana is running out of time. Since Camille married the Don of this Family, she must do what is required of her," he ordered coldly.

A sudden beep rang out.

Dmitri's phone buzzed, breaking the silence in the room.

He pulled his phone out. The bright screen made his sharp jaw look even more dangerous.

He looked down at me while talking into the phone. "Is the job done? Make sure there is no evidence left behind. The rest of the cash will be in your account by tomorrow morning."

I pressed my fingernails into my own palms.

Four years ago, when I "tripped" down the stairs, Dmitri was supposedly out of the country handling Family business.

Three years ago, when I "slipped" carrying dinner, he claimed to be dealing with a situation with the Commission.

But today, when I fell for the third time, I saw it with my own eyes. The hand that shoved me down the steps wore a silver cufflink stamped with the Gallagher Family crest.

"Give me the pills," Dmitri's freezing voice cut through my racing thoughts.

The doctor pulled a small metal case from his black bag. He hesitated slightly as he handed it to the Don. "One pill every morning with warm water. It is highly recommended that she never finds out what is inside them," he warned in a low voice.

"Understood," Dmitri said, hiding the case inside his dark suit jacket. As he turned around, the fabric of his sleeve brushed against my hand.

I pulled back in pure fear, only to hear Dmitri change his voice into a soft, loving whisper. "Camille, my sweet, are you awake?"

I slowly opened my eyes and saw him leaning close to me. His fingers gently rubbed my forehead, and the worry in his dark eyes was placed exactly where it needed to be.

I wanted to scream and cry.

I remembered how, just the night before, Dmitri had held my hands and promised, "When the baby arrives, we will take a private yacht to the islands."

Only in this terrible moment did I understand that he had been staring at my stomach the whole time, looking at my unborn child the way he might look at a shipment he was waiting to move.

Dmitri pulled the blanket up to my chin. He softly wiped my tears away. With a gentle voice, he said, "The doctor said you just need rest. When you heal, we will try for another child."

"Alright," I forced a fake smile. The taste of copper and blood filled my mouth.

I stared at the hidden lump in his suit pocket and thought about the doctor's warning about "womb exhaustion." I might suffer from terrible pain, swelling, and fluid buildup.

But to Dmitri, all my suffering was just the small price to pay to keep the embryo alive for his real goal.

The beeping of the heart machine suddenly started going faster. Dmitri frowned, stood up straight, and hit the red button by the bed. "Nurse, get in here and check on Camille. Her heart is beating too fast," he commanded.

I glared at his back as he turned away, biting the inside of my cheek to stay awake.

I remembered the blank escape documents hidden in my closet. Just two days ago, my best friend Sloane said she found me a quiet, hidden apartment in Oakhaven, far away from the mafia.

Looking back, the red flags were everywhere.

Dmitri was always conveniently out of town every time I lost a pregnancy.

His mother, Petra, only ever demanded to know when I would get pregnant again.

And somehow, new medical treatments for Liana always magically appeared right after I found out I was pregnant.

"Madam Camille?" the nurse whispered as she pushed a metal cart into the room. She found me staring blankly at the dark sky outside the window.

Dmitri had already left the room. On the small table next to me, there was a glass of warm water with a dissolving white pill floating inside. It looked exactly like the ones in the metal case the doctor had given him.

I stared at the glass, my heart filling with cold hate.

Four years ago, after my first loss, I cried and begged, "Can we please stop trying for a while?" Dmitri held me tight and cried with me.

Three years ago, after the second loss, his eyes were red as he whispered, "I am so sorry I failed to protect you."

But now I finally understood. All his tears were just fake acting, pushing me to get pregnant again and again for his sick plan.

"Madam Camille, do you need a drink?" the nurse asked. As the woman reached for the glass, I suddenly grabbed her wrist tight.

The nurse jumped, shocked by how cold my hand was. Then she saw me staring with dead eyes at the pill melting in the water. My voice was weak but firm. "Dump that glass in the sink. I am never drinking that poison again."

The nurse froze, looking nervously toward the hallway, before finally dumping the water down the drain.