Chapter 2

The next morning, the war began quietly.

A text message on my phone. It was from a number I didn't recognize.

It was a picture. Julian and Scarlett, sitting close together at a cafe. He was laughing, his arm around her. She was looking at the camera with a triumphant smirk.

The caption was simple.

"He's with his real family now."

I deleted it, my heart pounding. It was a direct hit, a message from Scarlett herself.

Then the news alerts started.

A gossip blog first. "Sources: Is American Princess Elara Caldwell Unraveling? Friends Worry About 'Erratic Behavior'."

Then a more reputable political site. "Questions Swirl Around Caldwell-Patterson Union Amidst Rumors of Instability."

They were using the fabricated dossier. Piece by piece.

Julian was a ghost. He was "working late" in D.C., "handling a crisis." His texts were full of fake concern.

"Don't read that trash, Elara. They're just jealous of us. I love you."

I tried to leave. I packed a small bag while he was gone, my hands trembling. I just had to get out.

He came home unexpectedly. He saw the bag by the door.

"What's this?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

"I'm going to my parents' for a few days, Julian. I need some space."

"Space? You're seven months pregnant. You're emotional. You're not thinking clearly," he said, his words a gentle poison. "You're staying here, where I can take care of you."

He called our doctor. Dr. Evans, a man my adoptive family had used for decades.

He came to the house, his face a mask of professional sympathy.

"It's the stress, Elara. Common in late-term pregnancies," he said, not meeting my eyes. "I'm going to prescribe a mild sedative. Just to help you rest."

I refused. I told him I was fine.

Julian held my arm. "Honey, the doctor knows best. It's for the baby."

They forced the pills on me. I felt foggy, disconnected. Trapped in my own home, in my own body.

The stress was a physical weight. A constant pressure in my chest. One afternoon, while reading another vicious article calling me a "hysterical gold-digger," a sharp, blinding pain shot through my abdomen.

I collapsed on the floor of the nursery I had so carefully decorated.

The last thing I remember was the color of the pale blue walls.

I woke up in a sterile white hospital room. The fog of sedatives was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

My hand went to my stomach. It was flat.

A sob escaped my lips, raw and animalistic. The baby was gone.

The door was slightly ajar. I heard Julian's voice in the hallway, low and furious. Not grieving. Angry.

"Damn it, Scarlett, this is a disaster! A miscarriage? She's a sympathetic figure now! The public will rally around her. It ruins the timing of the whole campaign! We look like monsters."

A pause.

"No, I don't care how she is! I care about how this plays politically. We have to pivot. Now she's the tragic widow. We can still use this."

I closed my eyes. The tears stopped.

Something inside me turned to ice.

He walked in a moment later, his face arranged into a perfect mask of sorrow.

"Oh, Elara," he said, rushing to my side. "My love. I'm so, so sorry."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

And I began to plan.