Chapter 8

It was all fake. The love, the proposal, the ring on her finger. All of it was a beautifully crafted lie designed to break her.

The other people in the boutique were looking at her now, their eyes filled with a mixture of pity and contempt. They saw the truth. The heiress, Francesca Freeman, was being played for a fool.

"Frankie, go try on your dress," Archer said, his voice impatient. He was looking at his watch, eager to get this over with.

She walked to the dressing room like a robot, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. She felt nothing. The pain had been so great, so constant, that she had gone numb.

Amelia followed her in, closing the door behind them.

"You look terrible, by the way," Amelia said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "All that stress is not good for your complexion."

She leaned against the door, examining her nails. "You know, I went to visit your mother's grave the other day. It's a lovely spot. A bit lonely, though."

Francesca' s head snapped up. "What did you say?"

Amelia smiled, a slow, cruel twisting of her lips. "Such a shame she had to die so young. All that money, and she couldn't even buy herself a few more years. You know, Archer is buying me the plot right next to hers."

Francesca stared at her, her mind refusing to process the words.

"He said my little Fluffy deserves the best," Amelia continued, her voice light and conversational. "Fluffy is my poodle, by the way. Don't you think it's sweet? Our pets will be neighbors for all eternity."

The memory hit Francesca with the force of a physical blow. A month ago, the cemetery had called, saying someone was trying to buy the plot beside her mother's. She had refused. Archer had come to her, his face serious. He told her it was for a distant relative of his who had passed away, and it was their final wish. He had begged her. She had, of course, given in.

For Amelia's dog.

He had lied, so easily, so cruelly, about something so sacred.

"You're disgusting," Francesca whispered, a wave of nausea rolling through her.

She flew at Amelia, her hand connecting with Amelia's cheek in a loud, sharp slap. The force of it made her own hand sting. She was trembling with a rage so pure it felt like fire in her veins.

Amelia didn't even flinch. She just laughed. "Is that all you've got? You hit like a girl."

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think you're so high and mighty, don't you? The great Francesca Freeman. But you're nothing. Your mother was nothing." She paused, her eyes glittering. "Are you sure her death was an accident, Frankie? Fires can be so easily started."

The implication hung in the air, thick and poisonous.

"I'm going to take everything from you," Amelia hissed. "Your money, your company, your name. And I've already taken the one thing you ever truly wanted."

She smiled. "I've taken Archer."

That was it. The final thread of Francesca's control snapped. She let out a raw, guttural scream and launched herself at Amelia, grabbing a heavy silver hairbrush from the vanity.

"You killed my mother!" she shrieked, swinging the brush wildly. "You witch! You killed her!"

The door burst open. Archer was there, his face a thunderous mask of fury.

He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask what happened.

He kicked her.

A brutal, powerful kick to her stomach that sent her flying backward into the wall. The air rushed out of her lungs in a pained gasp. A sharp, searing pain exploded in her abdomen.

Tears sprang to her eyes, hot and involuntary. It was the pain, she told herself. Just the pain.

Archer rushed to Amelia's side, ignoring Francesca completely. He cradled Amelia's face in his hands, his expression full of frantic concern. "Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?"

Amelia clung to him, trembling. "N-no, I'm okay. I think... I think she's just gone mad."

"You... you promised," Archer roared at Francesca, his voice shaking with rage. "You promised you wouldn't hurt her!"

"She said... she killed my mother," Francesca choked out, clutching her stomach.

"She's lying!" Amelia sobbed. "She's always lying! She's just trying to hurt me because you love me!"

Archer stared at Francesca, and the look in his eyes was one of pure, unadulterated hatred. Every time he got this angry, it was for Amelia. Every single time.

"Did you hear what she said?" Francesca asked, her voice a raw whisper.

"Amelia would never say something so horrible," he spat. "You're the monster here, Francesca. Not her."

His words didn't hurt her anymore. Nothing could hurt her anymore. She looked at him, at his handsome, furious face, and felt nothing but a vast, empty coldness. The love she had carried for a decade was finally, blessedly, dead.

Amelia, ever the actress, chose that moment to faint, slumping dramatically in Archer's arms.

He scooped her up, his movements full of frantic urgency. "I'm taking her to the hospital," he snapped at one of the boutique assistants. "You deal with... her."

He carried Amelia out, leaving Francesca a crumpled heap on the floor.

Slowly, painfully, Francesca pushed herself up. She walked over to the mirror and looked at her reflection. She looked pale and broken. But her eyes were clear.

She reached up and pulled the fake engagement ring from her finger. She let it drop to the floor. It landed with a soft, tinny clink.

A weight lifted from her chest. She felt... free.

She had thrown away a fake ring, a fake love, a fake life.

Archer, she thought, this engagement party is my gift to you. My final gift.

She would disappear. And he would never find her.