Chapter 3

The next few weeks passed in a blur of feigned morning sickness and careful planning.

Julian was attentive, in his own way, pleased with the idea of fatherhood and the status it brought.

Tiffany, flustered and flattered by my "generous" offer and Julian' s subsequent attention, was already becoming possessive of her new, unofficial role.

Mrs. Peterson, her aunt, watched with a mixture of pride and apprehension, her loyalty subtly shifting.

It was time for the next move.

Julian thrived on attention, on being desired. Seraphina knew this, and she would use it. I needed to dilute her impact, create competition.

"Julian, darling," I said one evening, as we were looking over a guest list for a small charity dinner he was hosting. "You know Chloe Ronson, don't you?"

He frowned. "Ronson? Vaguely. Flashy, isn't she? Always trying to get her picture in the papers."

"Exactly," I smiled. "She' s an aspiring influencer. Terribly ambitious. And she absolutely adores you. She told me once she thinks you' re the most charismatic man in the city."

Julian preened slightly. "Did she now?"

"She' s been asking me if she could perhaps get a small feature on her social media about the Hawthorne family' s philanthropic efforts. It could be good publicity for your image, especially with Alistair Sr. watching your every move."

His father' s approval was Julian' s holy grail.

"Hmm, publicity," he mused. "Chloe Ronson. She is rather... eye-catching. Perhaps an invitation to the dinner wouldn't hurt. For networking, of course."

"Of course," I agreed, innocence personified.

Chloe Ronson was a beautiful, vacuous, and utterly ruthless social climber. Perfect. She would be a gaudy distraction, someone to occupy Julian when Seraphina began her games of feigned unavailability.

I focused on my pregnancy, cultivating an image of serene, delicate motherhood. I attended prenatal yoga, shopped for baby clothes, and spoke often of my hopes for our child.

All the while, I was laying my traps.

Then, as I knew she would, the snake arrived.

Seraphina Hawthorne, my cousin, swept into our lives, her mother, Beatrice, in tow like a regal, disapproving shadow.

"Elara, darling!" Seraphina gushed, air-kissing me while her eyes scanned my still-slender figure with a critical gaze. "I heard the wonderful news! I simply had to come. My wellness expertise will be invaluable for your pregnancy."

Beatrice, a matriarch of her own powerful branch of the Hawthornes, nodded gravely. "Seraphina is a miracle worker. Her tonics, her regimens... she' ll ensure a healthy Hawthorne heir."

In my past life, I had believed them. I had welcomed Seraphina' s "help."

This time, I knew the truth. Rex Sterling, Seraphina' s bohemian artist ex-lover, the one she' d chosen over Julian years ago, was rumored to be facing financial ruin. His tech startup, once promising, was faltering. Suddenly, Julian, the rising star in business and politics, looked much more appealing. She wanted him back, and my pregnancy was an obstacle.

"How thoughtful of you both," I said, my voice sweet. "I' m feeling quite well, but any advice from family is always welcome."

I allowed Seraphina to fuss over me, to prescribe disgusting "health" concoctions I surreptitiously poured down the sink, to offer unsolicited advice on everything from my diet to my posture.

But I also made arrangements.

A few days into her stay, I ensured one of the maids, fiercely loyal to my side of the family after a few well-placed kindnesses, "accidentally" walked in on Seraphina snooping through Julian' s private study.

The maid, flustered, reported it directly to me, just as I' d hoped.

"She said she was looking for a specific book on... on ancient birthing rituals, ma'am," the maid stammered, "but she was going through his desk drawers."

I feigned mild surprise. "Oh, dear. Perhaps she was just curious. Julian does have such interesting things."

But I made sure the incident was subtly mentioned to Mrs. Peterson, who then, of course, would mention it to Tiffany.

Let the seeds of doubt about Seraphina' s true intentions sprout among the staff.

Let them see her not as a concerned cousin, but as a predator.

Seraphina, when I "gently" asked her about it, was all flustered apologies and wide-eyed innocence.

"Oh, Elara, I am so dreadfully sorry! Julian mentioned a fascinating first edition, and I simply got carried away. You know how I adore rare books!"

Her lie was smooth, practiced.

But the first crack in her facade had appeared. And I had made sure there were witnesses.