He Stole My Womb, Lost All

My fiancé, Kayson, became my hero after he brutally avenged the miscarriage caused by his ex-wife. He had her face branded and her legs broken, all for the child she made me lose. I believed he was my savior.

But on our wedding eve, I found him holding her. She was pregnant with his child, and their entire affair was a lie staged to fool me.

He confessed the worst part: after my miscarriage, he had my womb secretly transplanted into her, making me barren forever.

To punish me for discovering his secret, he threw me into a room of savage men to be assaulted, leaving me for dead.

He thought he was destroying a helpless victim.

He had no idea he was awakening the long-lost daughter of a family so powerful they could crush his empire with a single phone call.

As their hands tore at my clothes, I calmly pressed the panic button on my bracelet. My real fiancé was on his way.

Chapter 1

The day I lost our child began with my fiancé's ex-wife dragging me from our home by my hair.

The pristine marble floor was cold against my cheek. Two burly men, their faces impassive, held my arms pinned behind my back, forcing me to my knees.

Camille Perry, her red-lacquered nails digging into my scalp, yanked my head back. Her smile was a slash of triumph in her perfectly made-up face. "Did you really think you could take him from me, you little tramp?"

Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded in my lower abdomen. I gasped, a strangled cry tearing from my throat.

"Please," I begged, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Please, the baby..."

"The baby?" Camille' s laughter was like shattering glass. She leaned in close, her breath hot and smelling of expensive champagne. "That little bastard should never have existed in the first place."

She straightened up and, with a casual flick of her wrist, slapped me hard across the face. The world swam. A warm, sticky wetness began to seep through my dress, staining the white fabric a horrifying crimson.

The front door burst open. Kayson Alexander, my fiancé, the charismatic CEO whose face graced a dozen magazine covers, stood silhouetted against the afternoon light. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, widened in shock, then narrowed into slits of pure fury.

"Kayson!" I cried out, a sob of relief catching in my throat.

Camille didn't even flinch. She simply let go of my hair and stepped back, admiring her handiwork. The pool of blood was spreading around me, a macabre halo. "Look what she did, Kayson. She fell. So clumsy."

But Kayson wasn't looking at her. His gaze was locked on the blood, on my pale, tear-streaked face. For a moment, the world stood still. Then, a roar of primal rage erupted from his chest.

He moved so fast he was a blur. He grabbed Camille by the throat, lifting her off her feet. Her eyes bulged, her hands scrabbling uselessly at his iron grip.

"You touched her," he snarled, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "You hurt them."

He didn't wait for an answer. He slammed her against the wall. The sound of bone hitting plaster echoed through the cavernous foyer. Camille slid to the floor, a crumpled heap.

He was at my side in an instant, his hands gentle as he gathered me into his arms. "Eliza, my love, stay with me. It' s going to be okay."

But I knew it wasn't. The life inside me was slipping away with every drop of blood. My world was fading to black.

The next few hours were a blur of sirens, sterile hospital corridors, and the quiet, devastating finality of a doctor' s words. Miscarriage. The word was a sledgehammer to my heart.

When I woke up, Kayson was sitting by my bed, his head in his hands. His knuckles were raw and bloody. He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a pain that mirrored my own. He told me what he had done.

His revenge was as swift as it was brutal.

He didn't just ruin Camille Perry. He eviscerated her.

He had her dragged from her penthouse apartment in the middle of the night. He had a tattoo artist, a man who specialized in covering up gang affiliations, permanently brand her face with the word "Whore." He broke both of her legs, the same way she had once broken a rival's in a skiing "accident."

Then, he stripped her of every asset, every penny, every last shred of her identity. The last anyone saw of Camille Perry, the glamorous socialite, she was being pushed out of a black van into the city's most dangerous slum, dressed in rags, her once-beautiful face a ruined mask.

"She will never hurt you again," Kayson had whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, as he held me in my hospital bed. "No one will ever hurt you again. I swear it."

And in the weeks that followed, he proved it. He never left my side. He fed me, bathed me, held me when I woke up screaming from nightmares. He showered me with gifts, with affection, with a devotion so absolute it was suffocating. He made me believe I was the center of his universe, the only thing that mattered.

The world saw Kayson Alexander as my devoted protector, the man who had waged a war for the woman he loved. I saw him as my savior.

I believed him. God, how I believed him.

The night before our wedding, the grandest social event of the year, I couldn't sleep. The mansion was quiet, the air thick with the scent of thousands of white roses. I wandered downstairs for a glass of water, my bare feet silent on the cool marble.

That's when I heard the voices from the study.

His voice, low and laced with an unfamiliar tenderness. "It's almost over, my love. Just a little longer."

And then, another voice. A voice that sent a jolt of ice water through my veins. Camille's voice.

"You said that last time, Kayson. You said you'd leave her. And what happened? She got pregnant."

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp. I pressed myself against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"This is different," Kayson said, his tone placating. "The wedding is a necessary sham. For the business. You know that."

I peeked through the crack in the door. My stomach churned.

He was holding her. Kayson, my Kayson, was cradling Camille Perry in his arms, his hand stroking her hair. Her face, a grotesque landscape of scarred tissue, was buried in his chest.

"You owe me, Kayson," she whispered, her voice muffled against his suit jacket. "For my face. For my legs."

"I know," he murmured. "And I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"I want her to suffer," Camille hissed, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes were glittering with a venomous light. "I want her to feel what I felt. I want her to be thrown to the dogs, just like you did to me."

A beat of silence. I held my breath, praying. Say no, Kayson. Please, say no.

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "Alright."

The word was a quiet death.

"You don't feel sorry for her?" Camille's voice was sharp, suspicious. "After all, she's your precious little savior."

Kayson laughed, a cold, empty sound. "Savior? She's a replacement. A stand-in. Nothing more." He tilted her chin up, his thumb tracing the jagged scar on her cheek. "Don't worry. Tomorrow, you'll be my wife. And she..." He paused. "She'll get what she deserves."

He tried to step away, but Camille wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a possessive, bruising kiss.

"Don't," he grumbled, pushing her away gently. "You'll wake the baby."

My blood ran cold.

Camille smirked, her hand protectively cradling her own slightly rounded stomach. "He's a strong little fighter. Just like his father. You wouldn't let anything happen to him, would you?"

"Shut up, Camille," Kayson snapped, his voice edged with irritation.

But I had heard enough. I couldn't breathe. The world was tilting on its axis, the carefully constructed reality of my life shattering into a million pieces.