After My Bodyguard Faked Her Death, I Lost Everything

Biscuit died on a Tuesday morning.

I heard Madelynn scream from three rooms away. The sound was sharp and high, like glass breaking. By the time I reached the sunroom, half the staff was already there. The white Persian lay on her velvet cushion. Still. Stiff.

Madelynn knelt beside the cushion. Her hands hovered over the cat but didn't touch it. Her shoulders shook. "No. No, no, no..."

Ambrose stood behind her. His hand rested on her shoulder. His face was stone.

"What happened?" I asked.

Madelynn's head whipped toward me. Her eyes were red. Wet. "You," she whispered. "You did this."

"I didn't."

"Liar!" She surged to her feet. Stumbled. Ambrose caught her. "You hated her. You were jealous because Ambrose spent time looking for her instead of—instead of—" Her voice broke into sobs.

Ambrose's jaw tightened. "Marcus. Search Lennox's quarters. Now."

Marcus Chen nodded once and left. I stood there. Watched Madelynn cry into Ambrose's chest. Watched him stroke her hair and murmur things I couldn't hear.

Twenty minutes later, Marcus returned. He held a small glass vial in a gloved hand. And a pair of my work gloves.

"Found these in her nightstand," he said. His voice was flat. "The vial has residue. Looks like rat poison."

My stomach dropped. "I didn't put those there."

Ambrose looked at me. Really looked. His eyes were cold. Empty. "You're saying someone planted evidence in your locked quarters?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

I couldn't say it. Not without proof. Not when he'd already decided.

Madelynn lifted her head. Her face was blotchy. Ruined. Beautiful in its devastation. "She strangled her," she said softly. "I know she did. Poison wasn't enough. She wanted Biscuit to suffer."

"There are no marks on the cat's neck," I said.

"Then she used the poison. Either way, she killed her." Madelynn's voice turned to steel beneath the tears. "She killed the only thing I had left of my mother."

That was new. I'd never heard about Biscuit being a gift from her dead mother. But Ambrose's expression shifted. Softened at the edges.

"I didn't touch your cat," I said.

Ambrose stepped toward me. "You've been hostile toward Madelynn since the engagement. You undermined her in front of staff. You refused to follow her requests. And now this."

"I protected you for five years."

"And I paid you for five years." His voice was quiet. Lethal. "That doesn't give you the right to hurt what's mine."

What's mine. Not who. What.

He turned to Marcus. "Take her to the freezer."

Marcus hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. Then he nodded.

The walk-in freezer was in the basement near the kitchen. Industrial size. The kind restaurants used. Marcus unlocked it and pulled the heavy door open. Cold air poured out like a living thing.

"Inside," Ambrose said.

I looked at him. At the man I'd knelt in the rain for. The man whose spine I'd helped rebuild with my own hands during physical therapy sessions that left us both shaking. The man I'd loved so completely I'd forgotten how to love myself.

"How long?" I asked.

"Until you remember what you are."

I stepped inside. The cold hit me like a fist. Ambrose slammed the door shut. The lock clicked.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I don't know how long I lasted before the shaking started. Maybe an hour. Maybe less. The cold seeped through my uniform. Through my skin. Into my bones.

My back screamed where the whip wounds cracked open against the frost. I curled tight on the metal floor. Pulled my knees to my chest. Wrapped my arms around my stomach.

I didn't know why I did that. Not consciously. But my body knew something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.

I thought about the basement. About the mercenaries. About Ambrose leaving me there for a cat. I thought about Madelynn's smile. About the way she'd dragged her arm across Biscuit's claws. About the vial that had appeared in my nightstand like magic.

I thought about seven days.

Five now. Five more days.

I could survive five more days.

I had to.

Sometime in the night, I started counting my heartbeats. Focused on the rhythm. On the proof I was still alive. Still here.

The door opened at dawn. A maid I barely knew—young, terrified—stood in the doorway. She didn't say anything. Just stepped aside.

I crawled out. My legs wouldn't hold me at first. She helped me to the service stairs. Disappeared before anyone saw.

I made it to my quarters. Changed into street clothes. My hands were clumsy. Numb. I pulled on a coat and boots and walked out the service entrance.

No one stopped me.

The clinic was in a part of downtown where people didn't ask questions. I paid cash. Used a fake name. The doctor was older. Tired. She ran the tests without small talk.

When she came back, her expression was careful. Neutral.

"You're pregnant," she said. "About eight weeks."

I stared at her.

"Do you want to see?" She turned the ultrasound screen toward me.

A grainy black-and-white image. A small shape. Barely there. But there.

I couldn't breathe.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked.

"I need a printout."

She handed it to me. I folded it into a tiny square. Tucked it inside the lining of my boot where no one would find it.

Outside, the city was loud. Bright. Normal. I stood on the sidewalk and felt the world tilt.

Five more days.

But now I wasn't just surviving for me.