The pain between my legs didn’t come close to the emptiness in my arms.
I had pushed for fourteen hours, screamed myself hoarse, begged the doctors to save my baby.
They swore everything was fine… and then they said she wasn’t breathing.
“She showed no signs of life,” the doctor muttered, unable to look me in the eye. “We tried everything… but we couldn’t get her to breathe.”
Gregory stood at the foot of the bed, back turned. Not a single tear. Not a single word of comfort.
That night, while the morphine dragged me under, he left divorce papers on the bedside table.
“I can’t stay married to a woman who can’t give me a living child,” he said coldly. “Sign them. Someone will come for you in two days.”
He walked out.
Two days later, still bleeding, completely hollow, I took a taxi home.
I opened the door quietly and stepped inside. A baby was crying.
Chloe, my best friend of twenty years, the one who vanished for nine months on a “silent spiritual retreat” and barely returned my calls, was curled in my favourite armchair, cradling a newborn girl.
Gregory knelt beside her, feeding the baby from a bottle, gazing at the child with the love he once showed me.
I froze in my tracks.
They looked up.
Chloe’s eyes filling with something I didn’t expect, hatred.
Gregory rose slowly, lips curling. “You’re early, Isabella.”
“Whose baby is that?” My voice cracked.
Chloe laughed, sharp and triumphant. “Mine. Gregory and I are together now. The wedding is next month.”
“And yes, the baby is his.”
Nine months.
The truth hit me like a freight train.
“You got her pregnant while I was pregnant with your daughter?” I whispered. Gregory shrugged. “You failed. She didn’t.”
“Failed?” I managed to choke out. “Our daughter died, Gregory!”
I threw myself at him. My hand cracked across his face.
He froze for half a second then his fist came back just as hard, splitting my lip.
Suddenly rough arms grabbed me from behind, his hired guards.
Gregory nodded toward the basement. “Take her down there and make her sign everything.”
They dragged me downstairs, regardless of how fiercely I fought.
They beat me until my ribs cracked and blood filled my mouth.
I hit the cold basement floor hard, gasping, barely able to raise my head, but no one cared.Then they shoved a pen into my shaking, bloody fingers and forced me sign everything away.
Chloe leaned in the doorway, rocking the crying baby.
“Any final words?”
I gathered the blood in my mouth and spat it straight across her designer heels.
Chloe shrieked, jumping back as red splattered her white shoes. “You disgusting cow!” she screamed, face twisting in rage.
Gregory leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like it was a show. Then he smiled, opened a gasoline can, and poured it in a circle around me. “Goodbye, Isabella.”
The match flared.
The door slammed and locked.
Flames roared to life.
The flames kissed my ankles first, then raced up my legs, my dress, my arms, my hair. My skin blistered and split. I screamed until my throat was raw again.
Over and over, I slammed myself against the abandoned ventilation opening. The rusted metal edges scraped my palms until the screws holding the vent grate finally came loose, and the entire frame collapsed with a sudden crash.
I squeezed through the narrow opening, fire licking my back, my neck, my face. Skin peeled from my cheek as I dragged myself out.
I crawled blindly across the yard, over stone, grass, then cold, wet mud. Only when my burning skin hit a shallow puddle did the flames on me hiss out. I collapsed there, shaking, as the mansion erupted behind me.
When I tried to lift my head, the world spun. I slipped in the mud, and my skull cracked against something hard.
Everything went silent.
And that was how Isabella Harrington died…
…or so everyone believed.
-Nine months later-
“Jane Doe, you’re being discharged tomorrow.”
The doctor signed the chart.
After being found half-dead in the woods, my new face had finally finished healing. A nurse handed me a mirror, but for a moment, I hesitated. I hadn't dared look at myself until now, afraid of what the fire had done to my face.
My hand shook as I lifted it.
And when I saw the reflection staring back…
My breath shook.
It wasn’t my face.
It was a stranger’s. Prettier. Smooth skin. High cheekbones. Full lips. A face that didn’t belong to Isabella Harrington.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
“Don’t you like it?” the nurse asked softly. “You look really pretty.” But I wasn’t crying because I hated it.
I was crying because everything they took from me came flooding back. My husband.
His mistress.
The fire.
The betrayal.
Gregory Harrington.
Chloe Whitaker.
I remembered it all.
And now… I wanted revenge.
But before revenge, I needed to know one thing.
What happened to my daughter after they said she came out not breathing? Tears burned behind my eyes.
The day Gregory tried to kill me, I should have arranged her burial. I never made it back.
Now, before anything else, I needed to make sure my baby wasn’t left forgotten in a morgue.
Gregory would never care enough to handle it.
I picked up a pay phone and dialed the hospital.
“Hello, Saint Anthony’s Hospital, how can we help you?”
“I… I’m Mia Johnson. Cousin of Isabella Harrington. My cousin wants to know if her baby was properly buried.”
A sharp intake of breath.
“Who did you say you are?”
“Mia,” I lied. “Please. Isabella never got to bury her child. She needs to know if…”
“I can’t talk about this over the phone.” Her voice shook. “Please. Old Willow Park. The bench by the fountain. Seven p.m. Don’t call again.”
The line went dead.
My heart pounded in my chest.
Why would a nurse meet me in secret?
At seven, I sat by the fountain, hands shaking beneath my scarf.
Then I saw her, a woman pushing a baby stroller, walking straight toward me.
She stopped in front of me.
“I’m Rebecca Harlon. The one who spoke with you.”
My eyes flicked to the baby, then back to her.
She drew a shaky breath.
“This… this is the child of Gregory Harrington’s mistress.”