The pregnancy test showed two lines. I was twelve weeks along. I clutched the ultrasound photo, tears streaming down my face as I rushed to my husband's office at Blackwell Enterprises to surprise him. Ethan Blackwell — CEO, billionaire, the man every woman in this city wanted. And he was mine. Or so I thought. His secretary, Diane, tried to stop me. "Mrs. Blackwell, he's in a meeting—" I pushed past her. I was his wife. I didn't need an appointment. But when I opened the door, there was no meeting. Ethan had his mistress bent over his desk. Her red hair spilled across the mahogany surface. His hand gripped her hip. Her moans filled the room like she owned it. And the woman — I knew her face. Jessica Langley. My stepsister. The ultrasound photo slipped from my fingers. Ethan saw me first. He didn't even flinch. He straightened his tie, looking at me like I was an employee who'd walked in without knocking. "Vivienne. I told Diane no interruptions." No shock. No guilt. Not even the decency to pull away from her. Jessica turned around slowly, smoothing her skirt. She looked at the ultrasound on the floor, then at me, and smiled. "Oh, sis. You really should learn to knock." My chest was caving in. I couldn't breathe. "Ethan… I'm pregnant." The words came out broken. Desperate. Pathetic. Something flickered in his eyes. Not joy. Not surprise. Annoyance. "We'll discuss this later, Vivienne." Jessica picked up the ultrasound, studying it with mock tenderness. "Twelve weeks? How sweet." She glanced at Ethan. "Should I tell her, or will you?" "Tell me what?" Ethan's jaw tightened. He buttoned his cuff, not looking at me. "Jessica is also pregnant. Fourteen weeks." The floor tilted beneath me. "She's carrying the Blackwell heir," he continued, his voice flat, clinical, like he was reading a quarterly report. "My mother already knows. The family has accepted it." I staggered backward. "And what about our baby?" "Get rid of it." Three words. He said them the way you'd cancel a dinner reservation. Jessica walked toward me, pressing the ultrasound photo back into my trembling hands. "Don't worry, sis. I'll take good care of your husband." That was the moment I should have left. In my previous life, I didn't. In my previous life, I begged. I crawled. I stayed in that marriage for four more months, trying to save it, trying to make him love me again. Until Jessica pushed me down the stairs at the Blackwell estate. I lost the baby. I lost three liters of blood on the marble floor. And Ethan? He was at a charity gala with Jessica, accepting an award for "Family Values in Business." I bled out alone. The housekeeper found my body the next morning. But now — I opened my eyes, and I was standing in his office doorway again. The ultrasound photo was still in my hand. Jessica was still bent over the desk. And this time, I didn't cry. I picked up the photo, tucked it into my pocket, and looked at my husband with the clearest eyes I'd ever had. "You want me to get rid of it?" I smiled. "Fine. But I'm getting rid of you first." Ethan blinked. For the first time in our marriage, I saw confusion on his face. Good. Let him be confused. Because in this life, Vivienne Ashford doesn't beg. She burns it all down.
