Chapter 2

Ferne Booth POV:

A wave of nausea washed over me, so strong I had to brace myself against the kitchen counter. My head swam with the acrid taste of fear.

Daryl' s grip on my arm tightened, his brow furrowed with a sudden, sharp concern. But it wasn't for me. I could see the calculation in his eyes.

"Ferne? Are you feeling sick?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. "You're not... pregnant, are you?"

The question hung in the air, thick and poisonous. Pregnant. The one thing he had always been meticulously, almost pathologically, careful to avoid. We had been together for three years, engaged for one, but every time the conversation of children arose, he would shut it down with a chilling finality. "My legacy is my company, Ferne," he'd said once, his voice devoid of warmth. "I have no interest in messy family entanglements."

Now I understood. An "asset" was no good if it was compromised. A pregnancy would have rendered my body, my heart, useless for his grand plan. The disgust I felt was a physical thing, crawling up my throat like bile. I just shook my head, unable to speak past the lump of revulsion.

He seemed to believe me but his face remained a mask of tense anxiety. He disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a small box. He thrust it into my hand. It was a pregnancy test. No, not one. A family-sized pack of five.

"Take them," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "All of them. Now."

"Daryl, this is insane. I told you I'm not..."

"I need to be sure," he cut me off, his eyes like chips of ice. "There is no room for mistakes in our life, Ferne. You know that."

Our life. The words were a mockery.

"If it's positive," I whispered, testing the waters of this new, terrifying reality, "I could just... take care of it. No one would have to know."

His face contorted into a snarl so vicious it made me flinch. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare try to trap me with that. Is that what this is? Some pathetic attempt to secure your position?" He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in painfully. "If you are pregnant, I will personally drive you to the clinic. And if you refuse, I swear to God, I will find a way to get that thing out of you myself."

The raw, violent hatred in his voice stole my breath. It wasn't about avoiding a "messy entanglement." It was about keeping his precious asset pure. All those times he' d insisted on "protection," it wasn't for my well-being or our future. It was quality control.

"No," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "I'm not doing this."

"Yes," he hissed, "you are."

He dragged me into the bathroom, the cold tiles a shock against my bare feet. He ripped open the boxes, lining up the five plastic sticks on the counter like a firing squad. He stood over me, a menacing shadow, until I complied. The humiliation was a knot of shame in my stomach.

After, he forced me to sit on the edge of the tub while he watched the results develop, his jaw clenched. One by one, they came back negative. The relief that washed over his face was not for me, not for us. It was the relief of a man whose prized investment had just been saved from a market crash.

He knelt in front of me, his demeanor shifting instantly back to one of loving concern. It was a terrifying, whiplash-inducing performance.

"See, baby? Nothing to worry about," he cooed, stroking my hair. "You just need to listen to me. As long as you're a good girl, I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you."

A good girl. An obedient asset. I sat there, numb and silent, a single tear tracing a cold path down my cheek. My heart, the very organ he was plotting to steal, felt like it was cracking into a thousand pieces.

The next day was a blur of forced normalcy. Daryl insisted we go on a pre-planned outing with Kenisha-a trip to a scenic mountain lookout. I felt like a lamb being led to something far worse than slaughter.

When we arrived, Kenisha was already there, perched on a bench overlooking the valley. She was wearing a delicate white dress, her face a perfect portrait of innocent beauty. She waved weakly, a pained smile on her lips.

"Ferne, you came!" she chirped, her voice breathy. "Daryl, can you help me? I want to sit closer to the edge. The view is better there."

"Of course, my love," Daryl said, rushing to her side. He shot me a glare. "Ferne, move."

He didn't ask. He commanded. He gestured to the less desirable spot on the bench, further from the railing. I moved without a word, watching as he settled Kenisha into my previous seat, tucking a blanket around her legs with a tenderness that made my stomach churn. He fussed over her, his back completely to me, as if I had ceased to exist.

Kenisha looked over at me, her eyes gleaming with a malicious triumph. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, ornate perfume bottle.

"Oh, clumsy me!" she cried out, her hand "slipping."

The bottle flew through the air, not towards the ground, but directly at my face. I jerked back, but it was too late. A sharp, stinging liquid sprayed across my eyes. And then came the scream.

It wasn't a scream of surprise. It was a raw, piercing shriek of agony. Because the bottle wasn't perfume. It was pepper spray.