Chapter 6

Francesca POV:

"Antonio, no!" Harlow's voice cut through the chaos, shrill and desperate. "Don't! Think of the baby! Think of our baby!" She was crying now, truly crying, her performance finally cracking under the weight of genuine fear.

Antonio hesitated, his grip on my arm loosening almost imperceptibly. His eyes, still blazing with fury, flickered to Harlow's distraught face, then back to mine. The rage was still there, but a flicker of something else, something human, surfaced briefly.

Two security guards, spurred by Harlow's cries, rushed forward and pulled me back from the precipice, their hands rough, ungentle. My arm screamed in protest, a searing pain shooting through my shoulder.

I crumpled to the stage floor, my body shaking uncontrollably, every muscle screaming in protest. My breath hitched, a ragged gasp for air. The trauma was a heavy cloak, suffocating me.

Antonio stood over me, his chest heaving, his face contorted with a mixture of fury and disgust. "Get up, Francesca," he snarled, his voice low, venomous. "You're going to apologize. You're going to tell everyone this was a lie. A psychotic delusion."

My mind raced, reeling from the brink. Apologize? Lie? The words were a bitter pill, impossible to swallow. I would not give him the satisfaction. Not now. Not never.

Then, a cold, clear thought cut through the haze of pain and terror. This was my last chance. My final act. The ultimate disappearing act.

I looked up at Antonio, a strange, serene calm settling over me. His face, once the face of my love, was now a portrait of utter depravity. "You want me to disappear, Antonio?" I whispered, my voice surprisingly steady. "You want to erase me? Fine."

My eyes met his, a silent promise burning in their depths. "But you'll never forget. You'll never forget what you did."

With a sudden, unexpected burst of strength, I lunged forward, not at him, but past him, towards the edge of the stage, the very spot where he had dangled me moments before.

"Francesca, no!" His shout was a desperate, horrified roar.

But it was too late. I pushed off, soaring through the air, for a fleeting moment, I felt it. Not fear, but freedom. A perverse, exhilarating sense of liberation. The wind whistled past my ears, and in that instant, I was no longer a victim. I was an escape artist.

The impact was brutal. A sickening crack echoed through the stunned silence of the gala. Pain, blinding and all-consuming, exploded through my body. My head hit the marble floor, then my hip, then my arm. A kaleidoscope of agony.

I lay there, a broken doll, my limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood bloomed around my head, a dark, crimson stain spreading on the pristine white marble. My vision swam, the ornate ceiling dissolving into a blurry mess.

Antonio's face, pale and horrified, appeared above me. "Francesca? Francesca, talk to me! What have you done?" His voice was laced with a raw, genuine terror I hadn't heard in years.

I forced my eyes open, a faint, chilling smile touching my lips. With my last ounce of strength, I raised my blood-soaked hand, not to him, but to the empty air, and slowly, deliberately, I turned my thumb down. A silent, final verdict.

Suddenly, a new commotion erupted. Harlow, clutching her belly, let out a piercing shriek. "My baby! My baby! I'm bleeding!" She collapsed dramatically, her legs covered in a crimson stain.

Antonio's head whipped around. His eyes darted from my broken form to Harlow's wailing figure. The choice, stark and terrible, hung in the air. Me. Or his new family.

His face contorted in a silent scream of agony, a battle raging within him. But it was a short one. His ambition, his future, his carefully constructed life, all lay with Harlow.

He abandoned me. Again. He sprinted towards Harlow, leaving me bleeding on the floor, a forgotten casualty.

Paramedics swarmed the stage, their movements swift and efficient. They worked over me, their faces grim, a flurry of hurried whispers and urgent commands. I felt a needle prick, then the blessed darkness began to descend.

I was vaguely aware of being lifted, placed onto a stretcher, the rhythmic thud of feet carrying me away. The medical vehicle sped through the city, its sirens wailing, a mournful song in the night.

But this wasn't an emergency trip to a local hospital. This was orchestrated. Covered. A carefully constructed illusion.

In the back of the ambulance, a grim-faced doctor, his eyes holding a strange, knowing glint, spoke softly into a phone. "The swap is complete. Identity confirmed. Medical records altered. The deceased, Jane Doe, will be identified as Francesca Smith."

Jane Doe. A nameless woman, a tragic accident, her body now sacrificed for my escape. My death was a meticulously planned performance.

Antonio, meanwhile, was in a frenzy. "Save her! Save my baby!" he screamed at the doctors, completely ignoring the pale, trembling Harlow beside him. His focus was solely on the child, his heir.

In his frantic desperation, he inadvertently diverted crucial medical resources, pulling an additional emergency team to Harlow, believing her to be in dire straits.

Miles away, in a secret, secure medical facility, I was being meticulously cared for. Broken bones, a severe concussion, internal bleeding. My body was a wreck, but my mind was clear. And alive.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain a dull throb, the victory a quiet hum in my soul.

Antonio, later that night, tried desperately to reach me, calling my "hospital room," only to be met with confusion and eventually, the horrifying news. His wife, Francesca Smith, had died from her injuries.

The news hit him like a thunderbolt. The official report confirmed the fatality. Antonio stared at the headline, his name inextricably linked to my "suicide." The weight of it, the public scandal, the sheer, unimaginable loss, began to crush him. He crumpled, the realization dawning that he was, in his own twisted way, responsible for my "death."