Reborn Bride, No Longer Your Victim

On the eve of my wedding, a photo of my fiancé with an intern sent me fleeing to Paris.

But when the plane landed, five years had passed.

My parents were dead, killed in a car crash while searching for me. My fiancé, Clayton, was now married to that same intern. She was pregnant and living in our home.

He treated me like a deranged stranger, and when she faked a fall down the stairs, he blamed me. He locked me in a dark panic room-my greatest fear-to punish me.

There, in the suffocating darkness, I lost our baby.

He thought I was just acting for attention.

But a return ticket brought me back. I've woken up on my wedding day. My parents are alive. This time, I'm not running.

Chapter 1

Audrey Hanson POV:

On the eve of my wedding, a single TMZ notification blew my life, my future, and my past to smithereens.

My phone buzzed on the silk of my wedding dress, laid out on the bed like a promise. My maid of honor, Chloe, was in the bathroom, humming along to some pop song on the radio. The air was thick with the scent of roses and champagne. Everything was perfect.

Too perfect.

The screen lit up with the lurid headline: TECH MOGUL CLAYTON YOUNG' S LATE-NIGHT RENDEZVOUS WITH MYSTERY INTERN. WEDDING ON THE ROCKS?

My heart stopped.

I clicked. The photo was grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. There was Clayton, my Clayton, his tall frame leaning close to a younger woman outside a dimly lit bar. His hand was on her arm. Her face was tilted up towards his, her expression a mixture of adoration and something else I couldn't decipher.

The article named her. Kisha Fox. An intern at his company.

A wave of nausea washed over me. It felt like the floor had dropped out from under my feet. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. This couldn't be real. Not Clayton. Not the man I had loved for eight years, the man who had gotten down on one knee in this very room six months ago.

Chloe came out of the bathroom, her face scrubbed clean. "Audrey? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I couldn't speak. I just held out the phone.

Her eyes scanned the screen, her smile faltering. "Oh, Audrey... this is... this is tabloid garbage. You know how they are. They twist everything."

But I saw his expression. The focused intensity. I knew that look. He wasn't just talking to an intern.

"I need some air," I whispered, my voice a stranger's.

"Audrey, wait. Let's call him. Let's just talk to him," Chloe pleaded.

But I was already moving, grabbing my purse, my keys. The walls were closing in. The beautiful white dress on the bed seemed to mock me. Betrayal was a cold, suffocating blanket. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

I didn't drive home. I drove to the airport.

I walked to the nearest ticket counter, my mind a blank static. "The next international flight out," I said, my voice hoarse. "Anywhere."

The agent looked at me, my tear-streaked face, my trembling hands. "Ma'am, the next one is to Paris. It's boarding in twenty minutes."

"I'll take it."

I paid with the credit card Clayton and I shared, a bitter irony that didn't escape me. I walked through security in a daze, the article burning behind my eyes. I didn't have a change of clothes. I didn't have a plan. I just had to get away.

On the plane, I stared out the window as the city lights blurred into a constellation of pain. The flight attendant offered me a drink, her smile sympathetic. I just shook my head, unable to form words. The hum of the engines was a lullaby to my broken heart. I closed my eyes, exhaustion finally pulling me under, and let the darkness take me.

When I woke, it was to the gentle chime of the landing announcement. Sunlight streamed through the window, harsh and unforgiving. My head throbbed. I felt groggy, disoriented, as if I' d been asleep for days.

Stepping off the plane and into the Charles de Gaulle Airport, I felt a strange sense of displacement. The air smelled different. The fashion was... odd. Sleeker, more futuristic. The phones people were holding were thin, almost translucent sheets of glass.

I shook my head, blaming it on jet lag. My first instinct, a raw, primal need, was to call my parents. They would know what to do. They always did.

I pulled out my phone. It was dead. Of course.

I found a charging station, but the port was a shape I' d never seen before. A man next to me, noticing my confusion, offered me his charger with a kind smile. "Old model, huh? Haven't seen one of those in years."

Years? My blood ran cold.

I plugged it in and my phone sputtered to life. I ignored the dozens of frantic texts from Chloe and Clayton. I just needed to hear my mom's voice.

I dialed her number. A recorded message answered, cold and automated. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed at my throat. I tried my dad's number. Same message.

"No, no, no," I muttered, my hands starting to shake again. I tried their home phone. Disconnected.

I stumbled through the airport, my mind racing. Maybe they changed their numbers. Maybe they moved. A thousand frantic possibilities, none of them making sense.

I hailed a taxi, the vehicle humming silently, unlike any car I'd ever been in. I gave the driver my parents' address, an address I'd known my whole life.

"That's in the old district," he said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Not much there anymore."

The drive was a blur of unfamiliar skyscrapers and holographic advertisements. When we arrived, my childhood home was gone. In its place stood a sterile, glass-and-steel apartment complex.

"No," I whispered, getting out of the car. "This can't be right."

I showed the doorman a picture of my parents on my phone. He looked at the photo, then at me, his expression softening with pity.

"The Hansons," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry. There was an accident. A car crash. About... four and a half years ago."

The world went silent. The sounds of the city faded into a dull roar in my ears. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the pavement.

Four and a half years ago.

The driver helped me back into the car, murmuring condolences I couldn't process. My mind was a vortex of horror and disbelief.

Then I remembered the date on the newspaper kiosk I' d passed. 2029.

I had left in 2024.

I had been on that plane for five years.

Grief was a physical force, crushing the air from my lungs. My parents were dead. They had died looking for me. The thought was a jagged piece of glass twisting in my gut. It was my fault. All my fault.

I was alone. In the future. My parents were gone. The life I knew was gone.

There was only one person left.

My hands trembled as I scrolled through my contacts. His name was still there, a painful reminder of a life that no longer existed. Clayton Young.

My finger hovered over the call button. What would I even say? Hi, I know I disappeared on our wedding day, but I accidentally time-traveled five years into the future and my parents are dead. He would think I was insane.

But I had no one else. No money, no home, no family. Just a name in a phone that was a relic from another time.

In my purse, my fingers brushed against a small, velvet box. The engagement ring. I hadn't even had the presence of mind to take it off. I pulled it out. The diamond caught the light, cold and brilliant. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had slipped it on my finger.

I found his house key on my keychain. The one to the home we were supposed to move into after the wedding. A beautiful brownstone we had spent months renovating. Our future.

I had to try. I had to know.

I pressed the call button. It rang once. Twice. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Hello?"

The voice was his, but it was different. Deeper. Colder. Stripped of all the warmth I remembered.

"Clayton?" I choked out, tears blurring my vision.

There was a long pause on the other end. "Who is this?"

"It's... it's Audrey."

Silence. The silence was so heavy, I thought the line had been cut.

"Audrey," he finally said, his voice flat, emotionless. "After five years, you call me now." It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"Clayton, I... I can explain," I sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Something happened. I got on a plane, and... and I landed, and it's five years later. My parents... they're gone."

"Stop," he said, his voice like a whip. "Just stop. You think you can disappear on our wedding day, leave me standing at the altar, and come back five years later with some insane story about time travel?"

"It's the truth!" I cried, desperation making my voice shrill. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's the truth! I'm at the airport. I have nowhere to go. Please, Clayton. I need your help."

Another long silence. I could hear the faint sound of music in the background, something soft and jazzy.

"Where are you?" he asked, his tone resigned, weary.

I gave him my location.

"Stay there," he commanded. "Don't move."

The line went dead.

I waited for what felt like an eternity, huddled on a bench, the grief for my parents a physical ache in my chest. When his car pulled up-a sleek, impossibly futuristic model-my heart leaped with a desperate, foolish hope.

He got out. He was different. Older. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, etched with lines that hadn't been there before. He wore a tailored suit that screamed power and wealth. But it was his eyes that were the most changed. They were cold, hard, and empty. All the love, the light that used to shine there when he looked at me, was gone.

I ran to him, wanting to fall into his arms, wanting the comfort of the man I loved. "Clayton," I sobbed, reaching for him.

He took a step back, his face a mask of stone. "Don't touch me."

The words hit me harder than a slap. I froze, my arms falling to my sides.

"Time travel, Audrey? Is that really the best you could come up with?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Five years of silence, and you come back with a story worthy of a bad sci-fi movie."

"It's true," I whispered, my whole body trembling. "You have to believe me."

"Believe you?" He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Why should I believe you? You jilted me. You humiliated me. You broke my heart and then you vanished. For five years."

"I saw the article," I stammered, trying to make him understand. "The picture with the intern..."

"So you saw a picture and you ran?" he shot back. "You didn't call, you didn't ask. You just ran. And now you expect me to what? Welcome you back with open arms?"

"My parents..." I choked on the word. "They're dead, Clayton. They died in a car crash. The doorman said... they were looking for me."

The news, the final, horrifying piece of my shattered reality, hit him. For a flicker of a second, I saw something in his eyes-shock, maybe even pain. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that same cold mask.

"I know," he said, his voice quiet but sharp as a razor. "I was the one who identified their bodies. I was the one who arranged the funeral. I was the one who searched for you for two years, Audrey. Two years. I spent millions. I hired private investigators. I followed every dead-end lead. And you? Where were you?"

"I was on a plane!" I screamed, the injustice of it all tearing through me. "I don't know how, but I was!"

He just stared at me, his face unreadable. He looked past me, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second.

"Clay?" A soft, feminine voice called from behind me.

I froze. My blood turned to ice. I knew that voice. Or rather, I knew who it had to be.

I didn't want to turn around. I couldn't. I could feel her presence behind me, a shadow falling over the last vestiges of my life.

"Kisha, get back in the car," Clayton said, his voice losing its hard edge, replaced by a gentleness that twisted the knife in my heart.

But she didn't listen. She walked around me, her hand protectively on her swollen belly. She was beautiful, poised, and pregnant.

She was the woman from the photo.

"So this is Audrey," she said, her voice full of a cloying, fake sympathy. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

The world spun. My fiancé. His pregnant wife. My dead parents. My home, gone. My life, usurped. It was all gone.

I stumbled back, my legs threatening to give way again. "I have to go," I mumbled, turning to run, to go anywhere but here.

"Go where, Audrey?" Clayton's voice stopped me in my tracks. It was cold, logical, and utterly devastating in its truth. "You have no money. No ID that's valid in this decade. Your parents are gone. Your home is gone. You have nowhere to go."

He was right. I was a ghost. A relic.

Kisha stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Clayton's arm. "Clay, darling, don't be so harsh. She's clearly been through a lot. Why don't we take her home? She can stay with us until she gets back on her feet."

Home. With them. The thought was a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. The home that was supposed to be our home.

My home.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. I remembered planning the layout with Clayton, laughing as we picked out paint colors, dreaming of the children we would raise within those walls.

Now, she was living my dream. With my fiancé. In my house. And she was inviting me in like a stray dog.

Clayton looked from Kisha's concerned face to my broken one. He sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. "Fine. Get in the car, Audrey."

I was led to the underground garage. The car was a high-end model I didn't recognize. Clayton opened the passenger door for me. Without thinking, I moved to get in, a habit ingrained from eight years of being his. It was my seat.

He frowned slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. But before he could say anything, Kisha spoke up from behind me.

"Oh, honey, that's my seat. The baby gets fussy in the back."

Clayton' s attention immediately shifted. He gently guided Kisha into the passenger seat, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Of course. Are you comfortable?"

I stood there, frozen in embarrassment. I was the intruder. I was the one who was out of place. I quickly slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin.

The space that was once mine, filled with my things, my scent, was now hers. The music playing wasn't my favorite indie rock band; it was some soft, generic jazz. The air freshener wasn't the sandalwood I loved; it was a cloying vanilla.

Everything was a reminder that I no longer belonged.

The car hummed to life and pulled out of the garage. We drove in silence, the weight of five years pressing down on us. The car headed towards the familiar route to the brownstone. Our brownstone.

From the outside, it looked the same. But as we stepped inside, my heart sank. The warm, bohemian decor we had planned was gone. It had been replaced with a cold, minimalist aesthetic. White walls, chrome fixtures, abstract art. It was Kisha's taste. Not mine.

A maid I didn't recognize took my small purse. "Mrs. Young is pregnant," she said, her voice stern, addressing me as if I were a potential threat. "Mr. Young has instructed that we check your belongings to ensure you aren't carrying anything that could harm her or the baby."

My head snapped up. Pregnant. Hearing it again, so clinically, sent a fresh wave of dizziness through me.

This was my house. And I was being treated like a criminal.

The final, crushing piece of the nightmare slotted into place. I wasn't just a guest. I was an intruder. A dangerous, unstable intruder in the perfect life they had built on the ashes of mine.

"Does Mr. Young want to search me himself?" I asked, my voice laced with a bitterness that surprised me.

The maid faltered, taken aback by my tone.

Kisha glided over, her hand on her belly. "It's alright, Maria. I'm sure Audrey wouldn't hurt a fly." Her eyes, however, told a different story. They were cold, calculating, and full of victory.

She was the lady of the house. And I was nothing.

I was shown to a guest room-a small, sterile space at the back of the house. The door closed, and I was finally alone. The carefully constructed dam of my composure broke. A sob tore from my throat, raw and ragged.

I slid down the wall, curling into a ball on the floor, the grief and betrayal a physical weight pinning me down. My parents. Clayton. My baby... The thought came unbidden, a secret I had been holding close for what felt like a lifetime but was only a matter of days. The baby I had been so excited to tell Clayton about. Our baby.

The sobs wracked my body until I was empty, hollowed out. I was a stranger in my own life.

My hand fumbled in my purse, which the maid had returned with a sniff of disdain. My fingers closed around the paper ticket.

I pulled it out, my tears blurring the ink. It was the return ticket from Paris. The date printed on it was exactly seven days from today.

A single, impossible chance.

A way back.

My heart, which I thought had stopped beating, gave a powerful, hopeful thud. Seven days. I had to survive for seven days. And then I could undo all of this. I could save my parents. I could save myself.

I clutched the ticket to my chest like a prayer. It was my only lifeline in this waking nightmare.

Seven days. I could do this. I had to.

---

Audrey Hanson POV:

Hope was a dangerous, frantic thing. It pounded in my chest like a trapped bird beating against its cage. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. A chance to rewind the tape, to erase the last twenty-four hours of my life that had somehow stretched into five years of hell.

I couldn't just get my life back. I could get their lives back. Mom. Dad. The thought was a searing light in the darkness.

My first move was instinctual. I looked around the sterile guest room-a room I had once envisioned as a nursery-and found a hiding place. I carefully slid the precious ticket inside the lining of my purse, stitching it closed with a loose thread from my sweater. It was flimsy, but it was all I had.

Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of Clayton' s cold face and Kisha' s triumphant, pregnant belly burned behind my eyelids. I saw them together in our house, sleeping in our bed. The thought was a physical pain, a hot poker twisting in my gut.

Hours later, a parched thirst drove me from the room. I crept downstairs, the house silent and dark. The layout was the same, a phantom limb of my old life, but every detail was wrong. In the kitchen, I reached for a glass from the cupboard where we used to keep them, but my hand met an empty shelf.

I remembered how Clayton always used to leave a glass of water on my nightstand, ever since I told him I often woke up thirsty. A small, thoughtless gesture of love that now felt like a relic from an ancient civilization. The man who did that was gone.

"Can't sleep?"

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. Clayton stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the hallway. He was holding a glass of milk.

He walked past me to the refrigerator without a word, his presence sucking the air out of the room. He didn't look at me. It was as if I were a piece of furniture, an inconvenient obstacle in his path.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I had to say something. I couldn't stand this cold indifference.

"I... I was thirsty," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, his back still to me. "Kisha has trouble sleeping without warm milk. The pregnancy makes her restless."

Each word was a small, precise cut. He wasn't getting milk for himself. He was tending to his pregnant wife. His new life. A life that had no space for me.

The words I wanted to say-Do you hate me this much? Don't you remember us?-died in my throat. What was the point? He had already erased me.

I turned to leave, to retreat back to my cage.

"Audrey."

His voice stopped me. I turned back, a sliver of foolish hope flickering within me.

He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed on my hand, which was resting on the counter. "The house key," he said, his voice flat. "I need it back."

I looked down. The key to our brownstone was still on my ring. It was a custom design, a small, intricate 'A' and 'C' intertwined. He had given it to me the day we closed on the house. 'A key to our future,' he had said, his eyes shining with love.

My hand instinctively closed around it. "Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Kisha feels uncomfortable with you having access to the house," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. "She wants to be the only one with a key."

He was going to give her my key. Our key.

The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it stole my breath. This man, this cold stranger, was systematically dismantling every piece of the life we had built, every symbol of the love I thought we shared, and handing the pieces to her.

My fingers were numb. I slid the key off the ring. The metal was cold against my palm. I held it out to him.

He took it without his fingers brushing mine, his gaze still averted.

"Thank you," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

I turned and fled, not waiting for a dismissal. I ran back to the guest room and closed the door, leaning against it as if to hold back the tide of my own misery.

He loved her.

The thought wasn't a question anymore. It was a fact, as solid and unchangeable as my parents' deaths. He loved her enough to erase me. He loved her enough to give her my home, my future, my key.

I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself. My hand went to my stomach, flat and empty. A new wave of grief, sharp and distinct, washed over me.

In the brief, happy hours before the TMZ article, I had taken a pregnancy test. It was positive. I was carrying Clayton' s child. I had been planning to tell him that night, over a celebratory dinner. I had imagined his face, the shock giving way to elation.

Instead, I had seen a picture of him with another woman. And in my grief and anger, I had run. I had run right into this nightmare.

Now, another woman was carrying his child. A child he clearly wanted, a child he cherished. And mine? Our baby was a secret, a ghost from a past he refused to acknowledge.

I didn't sleep at all.

The next morning, I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Her eyes were hollow, rimmed with red. Her face was pale and drawn. I splashed cold water on my face, willing myself to hold it together. Just six more days.

I crept downstairs like a thief. Clayton and Kisha were already at the breakfast table. The table where Clayton and I were supposed to have our first breakfast as husband and wife. He was cutting her pancakes into small, bite-sized pieces, just like he used to do for me.

The sight was a punch to the gut.

"Audrey! Good morning!" Kisha chirped, her smile bright and sickeningly sweet. "Come, join us. Maria made your favorite, blueberry waffles."

I froze. How did she know that?

Clayton looked up, his expression unreadable. "Kisha has been very thorough in trying to make you feel welcome," he said, his voice laced with an edge of warning. "She went through all my old things to learn about you."

He hadn't told her. She had searched for information on her rival. The thought was chilling.

I took a seat at the far end of the table, feeling like an unwanted guest at my own funeral. Maria, the maid, placed a plate of waffles in front of me with a thud.

Kisha took a bite of pancake from Clayton's fork, leaning against him affectionately. "Clay, darling, my back is aching again this morning."

"I'll draw you a bath after breakfast," he murmured, his voice softening into a tone of pure adoration I hadn't heard in five years. "And I'll give you a massage."

"You're the best," she sighed, nestling closer to him. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

I stared down at my plate, the waffles turning to ash in my mouth. It was the casual, effortless intimacy that hurt the most. The quiet moments, the unspoken understanding. It was all the things that had once been mine.

He was performing his love for her right in front of me, a deliberate, cruel spectacle designed to show me exactly what I had lost. And it was working. My heart was splintering into a thousand tiny pieces.

I pushed my chair back, the scraping sound loud in the tense silence. "Excuse me."

I had to get out of there.

"Audrey." Clayton's voice was sharp, stopping me again.

I didn't turn around.

"I've arranged for a car to take you to the cemetery," he said, his tone flat and business-like. "The driver will be here in an hour."

My shoulders sagged with a strange mix of gratitude and despair. He was giving me this, a chance to see them. But it wasn't an act of kindness. It was a transaction. A way to manage the problem I had become.

He was giving me the address to my parents' graves.

---

Audrey Hanson POV:

My eyes flickered, but I didn't dare turn around. I didn't want him to see the pathetic gratitude that I was sure was written all over my face.

"Don't misunderstand," Clayton's cold voice cut through the air, as if he'd read my mind. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for them. It's the least they deserve after..." He trailed off, but the unspoken words hung in the air: after their daughter abandoned them.

"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice a dry rasp. I fled the room before the tears could fall.

Back in the sterile guest room, I stared at my reflection. The clothes I'd been wearing for two days were crumpled and stained. I had nothing else. Nothing appropriate to wear to my own parents' funeral, five years late. The thought sent a fresh wave of shame through me.

A sharp knock on the door made me jump. Before I could answer, the door swung open.

It was Kisha. She glided in, followed by the maid, Maria, who was carrying a selection of black dresses. Kisha's smile was perfectly painted, but her eyes were cold, assessing.

"I thought you might need something to wear," she said, her voice dripping with faux concern. "I had Maria pull a few things from my closet. We're about the same size, aren't we?"

She gestured for Maria to hang the dresses on the wardrobe door. They were beautiful, expensive, and utterly alien.

"Clayton spoils me," Kisha sighed, running a hand over a silk sheath dress. "He insists I have the best of everything. He says taking care of me is his greatest pleasure now."

Every word was a carefully aimed dart. She was showing me her power, her place in his life. She was the one he spoiled now, the one he took care of. I was just a ghost in borrowed clothes.

"He's a different man since he met me," she continued, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "More grounded. He says I saved him from the darkness after you left."

I looked at the black dresses, their starkness a mirror of the void in my chest. I couldn't wear her clothes. It felt like another layer of surrender, another piece of myself I would be giving up to her.

"Thank you," I said, my voice tight. "But I'll wear my own things."

Her smile faltered for a second. "Suit yourself," she said, her tone suddenly sharp. She turned and swept out of the room, Maria trailing behind her.

I chose my own dark jeans and the crumpled sweater I arrived in. It was inappropriate, but it was mine.

The driver waiting for me was a familiar face. Frank. He had been Clayton's driver for years, a kind, quiet man who had always treated me with warmth.

His eyes widened in shock when he saw me. "Miss Hanson? Audrey? Is that really you?"

"It's me, Frank," I said, a weak smile touching my lips.

"We all... we all thought you were..." He stopped, his face full of confusion and pity.

I couldn't tell him the truth. The words would sound like madness. "It's a long story," I said, my voice weary.

The drive was quiet for a while, then Frank spoke, his voice low. "He changed after you left, miss. A lot. Sacked all the old staff, anyone who knew you. Said he didn't want any reminders."

My heart clenched. He had systematically erased every trace of me.

"And then, about six months later, he married her," Frank continued, his eyes on the rearview mirror. "Mrs. Young... Kisha. He treats her like she's made of glass. Better than he ever... well, he's very good to her."

He stopped, realizing he had said too much. But the damage was done. The last sliver of doubt I had was extinguished. It wasn't a rebound. It wasn't for show. He loved her. More than he had ever loved me.

The TMZ photo flashed in my mind. The way he was looking at her. It hadn't been a one-time mistake. It had been the beginning. He had been falling for her even then, while he was still engaged to me. The betrayal was deeper, older than I had even imagined.

The cemetery was quiet and green. I found their graves side-by-side under a large oak tree. Robert Hanson. Beloved Husband and Father. Mary Hanson. Beloved Wife and Mother.

I sank to my knees, the grief I had been holding back finally overwhelming me. I laid my head on the cool stone of my mother's grave and wept, my body shaking with silent, ragged sobs. I didn't know how long I stayed there, lost in a sea of guilt and sorrow.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered to them, my voice breaking. "I'll fix this. I promise. I'll come back. I'll stop it from ever happening."

When I returned to the brownstone, the house was quiet. I was emotionally and physically drained. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and wait for the seven days to pass.

Kisha met me in the hallway. She was holding a steaming mug. "You look exhausted," she said, her sympathetic mask back in place. "I had the kitchen make you some calming herbal tea. It will help you rest."

She held it out to me. I hesitated. I didn't trust her.

Her smile tightened. "Oh, Audrey," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know you're pregnant."

My head snapped up. How? How could she possibly know? My blood ran cold.

"I saw the prenatal vitamins in your purse when Maria was checking it," she said, her eyes glinting with a cruel triumph. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

The mug in her hand suddenly seemed sinister. The scent of the tea made my stomach churn. I felt a wave of nausea, so strong I had to brace myself against the wall.

I pushed past her and ran to the nearest bathroom, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. The retching was violent, leaving me weak and trembling.

When I finally emerged, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, Kisha was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, the sympathetic act completely gone.

"You really think you can come back here with another man's child and win him back?" she sneered, her voice dripping with venom.

"It's not another man's child," I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of weakness and fury.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Do you take us for fools?"

Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall opened. Clayton stood there, his face a thundercloud. He must have heard the commotion.

Kisha's expression changed in an instant. Her face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears. She turned to him, her voice a wounded whisper. "Clay... I... I didn't want to tell you like this. But Audrey... she's pregnant."

Clayton's gaze snapped to me. His eyes, already cold, turned to ice. He strode towards me, his jaw tight with a barely controlled rage.

"You're pregnant?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

---