Six Years Later

"Mrs. Thorne, these lab results... something is very wrong."

Dr. Chase pushed the report across the desk. Her expression made my stomach tighten.

The consultation room at Mount Sinai was freezing.

"What do you mean 'wrong'?" My voice was weaker than I wanted it to be.

Dr. Chase took off her glasses and looked me straight in the eye.

"Your blood shows consistent levels of Levonorgestrel. That is the active ingredient in Plan B—emergency contraception. Someone has been dosing you. For a long time. At least eighteen months, maybe longer."

The room started to spin.

"That's impossible. I haven't taken any—"

Then I remembered.

The warm milk every night.

Julian would bring it to me personally.

He would kiss my forehead and say, "Sleep well, baby. Can't let my wife suffer from stress insomnia."

Every. Single. Night.

For three years.

"Mrs. Thorne?" Dr. Chase’s voice sounded far away. "Are you alright?"

I wasn't.

I wasn't alright at all.

Suddenly, all the pieces clicked together.

Julian’s mother, Linda, pestering me since the second month of our marriage: "The Thorne family needs an heir, Charlotte. What are you waiting for?"

My "infertility" issues. The countless humiliating exams.

The confused looks on the doctors' faces: "Your stats are normal, theoretically there shouldn't be an issue..."

Julian’s "understanding" hugs: "It’s okay, Charlie. We’ll keep trying. Maybe we look into IVF?"

The damn liar.

"There is one more thing." Dr. Chase’s voice pulled me back to reality.

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

"You're pregnant. Ten weeks."

The world stopped.

"What?"

"Given the drug exposure, I have to inform you of the risks. The fetus might be affected. We need more tests, and—"

"I'm keeping it."

The words flew out of my mouth. Firm. Clear.

Dr. Chase nodded, her expression complex.

"Then we need to monitor you closely. And, Charlotte..." She paused. "Whoever is doing this, you need to get away from them immediately. This isn't just betrayal. In New York, this is a felony."

I sat on a bench outside Mount Sinai. My phone screen was blurry.

Pregnant.

I was pregnant, and my husband—the man I trusted, the man I vowed to spend my life with—had been poisoning me.

Not to kill me.

But to ensure I never carried his child.

Why?

My phone buzzed. A text from Julian.

Julian: Emergency at the DUMBO project site tonight. Gonna be late. Don't wait up for dinner. Love you x

The DUMBO project.

The project he’d been "slaving over" for the past six months.

The project that kept him away from home at least three nights a week.

I opened the "Find My" app—we set it up when we got married because Julian said "married couples shouldn't have secrets."

His dot was in Lower Manhattan.

Not DUMBO in Brooklyn.

Tribeca.

Specifically, the penthouse building where Sebastian and Ivy lived.

I stared at that blinking blue dot.

Something shattered inside my chest.

It wasn't my heart. That had broken long ago.

It was the last shred of illusion I had about this marriage.

My hands were shaking, but I dialed Martha.

She was our housekeeper. She had known me since I was seven.

"Martha," my voice sounded hollow. "I need you to do me a favor..."

Two Hours Later

The procedure was quick.

Twenty minutes. Maybe less.

But the emptiness would last a lifetime.

I lay in the recovery room, staring at the white ceiling, feeling like my body and soul had been scooped out.

"Mrs. Thorne?" the nurse whispered. "Your friend is here."

Martha’s face was wet with tears.

She held me, and we both cried—for the baby that would never be, for six years of lies, for the marriage I was about to incinerate.

"Let's go back to the Manor," she whispered. "Your grandmother will protect you."

"Not yet." I wiped my eyes. My voice turned cold.

"First, I'm going to make them pay. All of them."

Midnight

When Julian came home, he smelled of whiskey.

And something else.

A perfume I knew too well.

Tom Ford Black Orchid.

Ivy’s signature scent.

The one I helped her pick for her wedding three years ago.

"Charlie?" He rattled the bedroom doorknob. "Why is the door locked?"

"Migraine," I said through the wood. My voice sounded dead. "I look terrible."

"Let me take care of you—"

His phone rang.

The special ringtone. The one set for "Priority Contacts."

I heard him answer. "Hello?... What?... Sh*t, I'm coming."

"Sorry, baby. Real emergency," he called out. His footsteps receded. "I'll be back soon."

I waited until the front door clicked shut before I let myself break down.

Martha held me while I sobbed. I cried for everything.

"Tomorrow," I whispered into her shoulder. "Tomorrow, I start fighting back."

Charlotte Kensington-Thorne was dead.

Now, it was time for Charlotte Kensington to rise.

And this time, I would make sure everyone who hurt me paid the price.