Chapter 3 3

The dining room smelled of lilies and old wax. It was a suffocating scent.

"You are late," Antonina said. She didn't look up from her soup.

"Traffic," Erica murmured, taking her seat.

"Excuses. Typical of your background. No discipline."

"Enough, Antonina."

Grandfather Bentley sat at the head of the table. He was frail, his hands shaking as he held his spoon, but his eyes were kind. He was the only reason Erica had stayed this long. He was the one who had approved the marriage, thinking he was giving Dillard a good woman, not knowing his grandson would treat her like a curse.

The silence stretched, broken only by the scrape of silver on china.

"Three years," Antonina said suddenly, slamming her napkin down. "And still no heir. The trust fund stipulations are clear, Erica. If you cannot produce a child, you are useless to this family."

Erica gripped her fork. Her knuckles turned white. If only she knew. The "vitamins" Antonina force-fed her were the very reason there was no heir. The irony was so sharp it could cut glass.

The heavy oak doors swung open. Dillard strode in. He looked annoyed, his phone still in his hand. He wore a fresh suit, different from the one he had left in this morning.

"Grandfather," he nodded, ignoring his mother and his wife completely. "I can only stay ten minutes."

"Sit down, Dillard," the old man barked. "Look at your wife. She is part of this family. Stop parading that actress around town."

"She is not an actress," Dillard said coolly, taking his seat. "Brisa is a philanthropist. And she saved my life. Show some respect."

Saved his life. The lie tasted like bile in Erica's throat.

Antonina smirked. "Brisa is a delight. Unlike some people who only know how to spend our money."

Erica felt a snap inside her chest. It was audible to her, like a dry twig breaking.

She stood up. The chair legs screeched against the parquet floor.

"Let's divorce," she said.

The room went dead silent. A servant in the corner stopped polishing a glass.

Dillard looked up. He swirled the wine in his glass, a sneer forming on his lips. "Divorce? Is the allowance not enough this month? Or do you want a new villa?"

"I don't want your money," Erica said. Her voice was trembling, but her eyes were dry. "I just want out. Sign the papers."

Dillard laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound. "Fine. If that's the game you want to play. Don't come crawling back when the credit cards stop working."

Erica turned away. She couldn't look at him. She walked toward the door.

A sudden, violent pain ripped through her midsection. It was like a knife twisting deep in her womb. Erica gasped, doubling over. She grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling.

Warm wetness flooded between her legs.

She looked down. On the pristine white marble floor, a drop of bright red blood splattered. Then another. Then a stream.

"Erica?" Grandfather's voice was filled with panic.

Dillard turned in his chair. He saw her hunched over. He saw her clutching her stomach.

"Stop acting," he said, his voice dripping with disgust. But as the words left his mouth, his eyes locked onto the floor. The puddle was expanding rapidly, too red, too real. His fork clattered onto his plate. The disgust on his face fractured, replaced by a sudden, jarring confusion. He started to rise, his knuckles white as he gripped the table edge.

"Sit down, Dillard," Antonina snapped, her voice sharp. "It's a trick. She probably cut her leg."

Dillard hesitated, caught between his mother's command and the visceral horror of the blood. That hesitation cost him everything.

Erica tried to speak, to tell him it hurt, but the darkness rushed in from the edges of her vision. Her knees gave way. She collapsed onto the floor, the black dress pooling around her, hiding the blood that was spreading fast.

"Call an ambulance!" Grandfather screamed.

Dillard was frozen. He stared at the dark stain expanding from beneath her dress. This wasn't acting. No one could fake this. A cold dread coiled in his gut, silencing his arrogance.