Chapter 3

I woke up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor and a dull, throbbing pain in my abdomen. The smell of antiseptic filled my nose. I was in a private hospital room, the kind of sterile luxury Brayden' s money could buy.

My first thought was of the baby.

I pushed myself up, ignoring the sharp protest from my muscles. My hand went instinctively to my belly. It was still there. A wave of relief, complicated and confusing, washed over me.

I needed to get out. I needed to know what was happening.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my body aching with every movement. I found a robe draped over a chair and slipped it on. The hallway was quiet, the polished floors reflecting the dim, overnight lighting.

I moved slowly, using the wall for support. I was looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone. As I neared the nurses' station, I heard voices coming from a small, private lounge.

One voice was Brayden' s. The other belonged to his personal assistant, a man named Marcus. I froze, pressing myself into the shadows of the hallway.

"Sir, are you sure about this?" Marcus sounded hesitant, concerned. "Leaving Mrs. Quinn right after the accident... the media..."

"I' ll handle the media," Brayden snapped. His voice was cold, devoid of any worry. "Katharina was hysterical. She thought the truck was coming for her. She needed me."

My heart stopped. Katharina. He left me bleeding in a wrecked car for her. Because she was scared.

"But Mrs. Quinn is pregnant, sir. With your child. What you did tonight... locking her in the MRI machine..."

I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. What was he talking about?

"She has claustrophobia," Brayden said, his voice flat and chillingly detached. "A little scare was necessary. She' s been acting out. The scene at the funeral. Her defiance. She needed a reminder of who is in control."

He wasn't talking about the car crash. He was talking about something else. Something that happened after. I must have been brought here, and he... he did something to me.

"This child is my heir, Marcus. It' s the only thing that matters. Amelia is just the carrier. An incubator. A means to an end. Once the baby is born, her usefulness will be over."

The words were like punches, each one landing with brutal force. An incubator. A means to an end.

"And you' re certain she still doesn' t know about the egg donor?" Marcus asked.

"She' s not smart enough to figure it out," Brayden scoffed. "And even if she did, what would she do? She has nothing. No one. Her mother is dead. I made sure of that."

The world dissolved into a silent scream. I made sure of that.

It wasn' t neglect. It wasn' t a mistake. He had intentionally withheld care. He had murdered my mother.

I felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to grip the wall to keep from collapsing. The man I had loved, the man I had saved, was a monster. A cold-blooded killer who had orchestrated the death of my mother and was now using my body to carry his child with another woman.

"She' ll fall in line," Brayden continued, his voice filled with an arrogant confidence that made my skin crawl. "She loves me. She' s weak. She' ll forgive me for leaving her tonight, just like she forgives everything else. She always does."

I couldn' t listen anymore. I stumbled back down the hallway, my mind a maelstrom of horror and grief. He thought I was weak. He thought I would forgive him.

He had no idea who I was anymore.

I had to be smart. I had to pretend.

I slipped back into my room just as a nurse was coming in. I lay back in bed, arranging my face into a mask of weak confusion.

"Mrs. Quinn, you' re awake!" she said cheerfully. "You gave us all quite a scare."

"What happened?" I asked, my voice a convincing rasp.

"You have some bruising and a mild concussion from the accident, but you and the baby are both perfectly fine. Doctor' s orders are for you to stay for observation. And we need to get you down for a routine MRI, just to check on your head injury."

The MRI. Brayden' s words echoed in my ears. A little scare was necessary.

My blood ran cold. He had planned this.

"Okay," I said, forcing a small, trusting smile. I had to play along. It was the only way.

Two orderlies came and transferred me to a gurney. They wheeled me down to the imaging department, the bright hospital lights flashing overhead. They were kind and professional. I almost let myself believe it was just a routine procedure.

They helped me onto the narrow bed of the MRI machine.

"We' re just going to slide you in now, Mrs. Quinn," one of them said. "Just hold perfectly still."

As the bed began to move, sliding me into the tight, cylindrical tube, my breath caught in my throat. The walls felt like they were closing in.

A memory, sharp and terrifying, flashed in my mind. I was a child, maybe six years old. Playing hide-and-seek with my cousins. I' d hidden in an old, abandoned refrigerator. The door had swung shut, the latch clicking into place.

The darkness. The silence. The feeling of the air getting thin. The panic, clawing and screaming, trapped in that small, suffocating box. My father finally found me, hours later, hysterical and barely breathing.

I had been terrified of enclosed spaces ever since. Brayden knew that. He knew it was my deepest, most primal fear.

The machine whirred to life, the loud, rhythmic clanging echoing the frantic beat of my heart. I was trapped. The walls were inches from my face. I couldn' t move. I couldn' t breathe.

I screamed. I begged them to let me out. I clawed at the sides of the tube, my nails scraping against the hard plastic. But no one came. The clanging continued, a relentless soundtrack to my terror.

My lungs burned. Black spots danced in my vision. The world narrowed to this suffocating tube. The pain in my abdomen returned, sharp and insistent. I was going to die in here. He was going to kill me, just like he killed my mother.

I don' t know how long I was in there. It felt like an eternity.

Then, just as I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, the noise stopped. The bed began to slide out.

The bright lights of the room were blinding. A figure stood over me. It wasn' t a doctor or an orderly.

It was Elliot Jefferson.

"I got your text," he said, his face grim. "Looks like we need to accelerate the plan."