Chapter 3

Eliza Todd POV:

"You'll sit there, you'll smile, and you'll play the part of the supportive fiancée," Dante said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Is that clear?"

"Crystal," I replied, my voice devoid of emotion.

There was no point in arguing. I felt hollowed out, a spectator in my own life. I had already texted my divorce lawyer, a woman I' d found online months ago during a particularly lonely night. I told her to file the papers first thing in the morning. This was just one last charade to endure.

We arrived at a chic, industrial art gallery buzzing with the city' s elite. Kamala Wong was the center of it all, a vision in a scarlet dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her laughter was loud and confident as she held court, a glass of champagne in her hand.

I, on the other hand, looked like what I was: a woman who had just spent the night in a hospital bed. I was still in the clothes from yesterday, my hair was a mess, and there were pale, translucent circles under my eyes.

"Kamala's a true inspiration," a woman next to me gushed to her friend. "A self-made woman. So brilliant."

Their eyes flicked over to me, and the woman lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Unlike some people, who just marry their way to the top."

Kamala spotted us and glided over, her smile never quite reaching her cold, calculating eyes.

"Eliza! I'm so glad you could make it," she said, her tone dripping with false sincerity. "Dante was so worried you weren't feeling well."

"I'm fine," I said flatly.

Someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare to liven up the party. A bottle was spun, and it landed, predictably, on Kamala.

"Truth!" she declared with a dramatic flourish.

One of her sycophantic friends asked, "If you could give Dante one piece of advice about his personal life, what would it be?"

Kamala' s gaze locked with mine, a malicious glint in her eyes. "I would tell him to be with someone who can truly support his ambitions. Someone who understands that legacy isn't just about personal happiness... it's about what you build for the future." She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "It must be so difficult, Eliza, not being able to give him a child. I can't even imagine that kind of failure."

The crowd murmured sympathetically, all of them looking at Kamala as if she were a saint for her supposed compassion.

For two years, I had let this woman's presence poison my marriage. I had cried, I had screamed, I had accused. Dante had always, always taken her side, calling me paranoid, jealous, unhinged. He' d gaslighted me into believing I was the problem.

But the woman standing here now wasn't the same one who used to break down in tears over their late-night "strategy sessions." That woman died in a hospital bed last night.

"Don't worry about me, Kamala," I said, my voice steady. "If Dante and I don't work out, I'm perfectly fine with a divorce."

Dante's head snapped towards me, his eyes blazing with fury. "Eliza," he hissed, his voice a low warning.

"What?" I asked, feigning innocence. "You can't possibly think you're the only man in the world who would want me."

He was momentarily stunned into silence, a flicker of panic in his eyes before he masked it with a tight, forced smile. "Darling, let's not air our laundry in public," he said, trying to steer me away. "We'll talk at home."

The game continued, and the bottle spun again. This time, it pointed directly at me.

"Dare!" Kamala announced before I could even speak. "I dare you to go kiss the first single man you see."

Dante's jaw clenched. "She's not doing that."

"It's just a game, Dante," Kamala purred.

"I'll take a penalty shot instead," he said firmly, grabbing a glass of whiskey from a passing tray and pushing it towards me. "Here. Drink this."

I looked at the amber liquid, then back at his furious face. He didn't want another man touching his property, but he was perfectly fine with forcing alcohol on a woman who, for all he knew, could still be pregnant with his child.

I stood up. "No."

"Don't you dare defy me, Eliza," he seethed, his grip tightening on my arm.

The irony was suffocating. He could spend every waking moment with another woman, but I couldn't even play a stupid party game.

"Eliza's just emotional," Kamala said to the crowd with a patronizing smile. "You know how it is."

"Drink it," Dante commanded, his face inches from mine. He brought the glass to my lips, forcing it against my teeth. "You are embarrassing me."

I tried to turn my head away, but he was too strong. The whiskey sloshed over the rim, spilling down my chin and onto the front of my dress. Some of it trickled into my mouth, the sharp, burning taste making me cough and sputter.

My first thought was of the baby. The tiny, fragile life I was so desperately trying to protect. A surge of pure, primal fear shot through me.

I shoved him away with all my might, stumbling backward. My heel caught on the edge of a rug, and I lost my balance.

I fell hard.

The world went white with pain. A scream, sharp and piercing, was ripped from my lungs as an agony unlike anything I had ever felt exploded in my abdomen.

Dante stared down at me, his initial concern quickly replaced by annoyance. "For God's sake, Eliza, get up. You're making a scene."

Then, someone in the crowd gasped.

"Oh my God," a woman whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. "She's bleeding."

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