Chapter 2

Olivia POV

The ballroom of the Hayes estate was a sea of black tuxedos and glittering diamonds. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and suppressed violence.

This was the annual Family Gala, a night where truces were honored and power was displayed like a weapon.

I stood near the entrance, a frozen smile plastered on my face. My hand rested absentmindedly on my stomach, concealed beneath the heavy draping of my red gown.

Michael walked in twenty minutes late.

The room shifted. Heads turned. Conversations paused. That was the effect Michael Thorne had. He didn't just enter a space; he sucked the oxygen right out of it.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a tuxedo that cost more than most people's cars. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

He spotted me. For a second, his eyes widened. The red dress. He approved.

He walked toward me, closing the distance with long, confident strides. He looked like the king of the world.

He reached me and leaned in, kissing my cheek. His lips were cold.

"You look stunning, Liv," he murmured.

"Where were you?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Business," he said, pulling back. "Boring New York politics. I'm here now."

He reached for my waist. I flinched.

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

Before I could answer, a hush fell over the room. A deeper, heavier silence than when Michael had entered.

I followed the gaze of the crowd toward the main doors.

A woman was standing there.

She was wearing a dress that was barely legal-gold sequins that clung to every curve like a second skin, with a slit that slashed all the way up to her hip. Her dark hair cascaded down her back.

It was the woman from the photo.

Serena Cole.

She wasn't just here. She was making an entrance. And she wasn't alone. She was on the arm of a minor associate from the New York families, but her eyes were locked on one person.

My husband.

I felt Michael stiffen beside me. His hand on my waist tightened, not in comfort, but in tension.

"What is she doing here?" I whispered.

Michael didn't answer. He looked pale.

Serena began to walk toward us. The crowd parted for her, sensing the drama like sharks sensing blood. She moved with a predatory grace.

She stopped right in front of us. Up close, she was beautiful in a cheap, flashy way. Too much makeup. Too much skin. But she had a confidence that terrified me.

"Michael," she purred. "You forgot your tie clip in the suite."

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a silver tie clip. She held it out to him.

The room went dead silent.

That wasn't just a statement. That was a declaration of war. She was claiming him. In front of my father. In front of the Commission. In front of me.

Michael stared at the clip. He didn't take it.

"Serena," he said, his voice tight. "This isn't the place."

"Oh, don't be shy," she laughed, a brittle, tinkling sound. She turned her eyes to me. They were cold, dead things.

"And this must be the little wife. Olivia, right? Michael talks about you. He says you're... sweet. A bit old-fashioned."

She stepped closer, invading my personal space.

"I see why he gets bored," she whispered, loud enough for the people nearby to hear.

My blood turned to ice. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me.

"You need to leave," I said. My voice shook, but I held my ground.

Serena smirked. She held a glass of red wine in her other hand.

"Oops," she said.

She flicked her wrist. The wine splashed across the front of my dress. The red liquid soaked into the red silk, turning it a dark, ugly crimson. It looked like a gunshot wound right over my womb.

Gasps rippled through the room.

I stood there, dripping, humiliated. I looked at Michael. I waited for him to grab her. To throw her out. To defend his wife. To defend his honor.

Michael looked at the crowd. He saw the judgment. He saw the scandal.

Then he looked at me.

"Liv, don't make a scene," he hissed. "Go upstairs and change. I'll handle this."

I stared at him.

Don't make a scene?

"She just assaulted me, Michael."

"She's drunk," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "She's a guest of the New York delegation. If we cause a scene, it insults them. Go. Change."

He turned his back on me. He turned toward Serena and took her elbow, guiding her away from the center of the room, leaning in to whisper something to her.

He chose her.

He chose politics over me. He chose his mistress over his wife.

I looked across the room. My mother, Elizabeth, was standing by the bar. She had set her glass down so hard the stem had snapped. Her eyes were fixed on Michael, and they promised murder.

But my father, Mr. Hayes, caught her eye and gave a microscopic shake of his head. Wait.

I was alone.

The humiliation burned my skin. I could feel the eyes of every man and woman in the room dissecting me. Pitying me. Laughing at me.

I placed my hand over my stomach, over the wet, cold fabric.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I turned around and walked out of the ballroom. My head was high. My back was straight.

But inside, Olivia Thorne died.