I Pretended to Carry His Child to Ruin Them

The glow of Felix’s monitors painted the dim hotel room in shades of sickly blue. My left arm, encased in plaster and strapped against my chest, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache that synced with the blinking cursor on the screen. We weren’t in the penthouse anymore; that was occupied by Sebastian’s squatting relatives. We were in a budget suite near the airport, surrounded by takeout containers and the hum of hard drives.

“It’s sent,” Felix said, his voice stripping the room of oxygen. “The hook is in the water.”

On the screen, a spoofed email notification sat in the sent folder. It was a masterpiece of bureaucratic banality: a logo for the *Washington State Lottery Commission*, a reference number, and a claim regarding a “Second-Chance Drawing” for a ticket purchased eleven months ago. The jackpot: five million dollars. The catch: a seventy-two-hour claim window due to a “clerical expiration error.”

“He’s in Mexico,” I murmured, studying the map where Sebastian’s phone signal pulsed like a heartbeat. “He’s broke, he’s tired of the heat, and Izabella is probably threatening to leave him for someone with a working credit card.”

“He’ll bite,” Felix said, adjusting his glasses. “Greed is the only thing stronger than his cowardice.”

Twenty minutes later, the burner phone on the table buzzed.

My heart didn't race. It went cold, a stone dropping into a frozen lake. I picked up the device, toggled the voice modulation app to *‘raspy/middle-aged,’* and answered.

“State Lottery Commission, Claims Department. This is Brenda.”

“Yes, hello,” Sebastian’s voice crackled through the speaker. It was tighter than I remembered, pitched high with a desperate, frantic energy. “I… I received an email. About a ticket. Reference number 884-Bravo.”

“One moment.” I typed loudly on a disconnected keyboard for effect. “Ah, yes. Mr. Burns. Purchased at the Shell station on Fourth and Pike, last November. You bought a pack of Parliament Lights and two scratch-offs at 6:42 PM. Is that correct?”

I knew it was correct. I had been in the passenger seat, waiting for him to come back with my Diet Coke. I remembered the rain on the windshield and the way he’d tossed the losing tickets onto the dashboard, cursing his luck.

“Yes,” he breathed, the suspicion in his voice dissolving into pure, unadulterated hunger. “That’s me. That’s my ticket.”

“Congratulations, sir. However, the claim window closes in forty-eight hours. You need to present identification at our remote processing center in Forks. We’re doing a promotional shoot for the ‘Unclaimed Millions’ series.”

“Forks? Why not Seattle?”

“Security protocol for high-value payouts,” I lied smoothly. “If you can’t make it, the funds roll over to the state education fund on Monday morning.”

“No!” he shouted, too quickly. “No, I’ll be there. I’m booking a flight now.”

I hung up. Felix looked at me, a grim smile touching his lips.

“He’s coming home.”

***

The cabin sat on a jagged spine of rock overlooking the Pacific, isolated by miles of dense, dripping pine forest. It was a beautiful place to die. The air tasted of salt and rot.

Inside, the staging was meticulous. I moved through the living space with efficient, predatory grace, checking the angles of the hidden cameras Felix had embedded in the smoke detectors and the bookshelf. The feed needed to be clear. We weren’t just trapping a rat; we were documenting its demise.

On the rustic coffee table, I placed the welcome basket. A card printed on heavy stock read: *Welcome, Winner! The courier will arrive at 09:00 AM for verification. Please enjoy the amenities.*

Next to it sat a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a decanter of amber whiskey.

I pulled the syringe from my pocket. The needle glinted in the gray afternoon light. Inside the barrel swirled a cocktail Felix had synthesized—a heavy dose of amphetamines laced with a potent hallucinogen. It wouldn't kill them, not directly. It would just peel back the layers of their sanity, turning paranoia into monsters and shadows into threats.

With my good hand, I carefully pierced the foil and cork of the champagne, injecting half the mixture. The rest went into the whiskey. I gave the bottles a gentle swirl, watching the poison vanish into the expensive liquor.

“Cameras are live,” Felix’s voice came through my earpiece. “Get out of there, Sky. They just passed the mile marker.”

I took one last look at the room—the fire ready to be lit, the plush rug, the poisoned chalice waiting on the table. It looked like a romantic getaway. It looked like salvation.

I slipped out the back door, the damp coastal wind biting at my cheeks, and made my way up the ridge to the old storm bunker where Felix was waiting.

***

The bunker smelled of wet concrete and rust. We sat in the dark, the only light coming from the bank of monitors.

On screen three, a black rental sedan crunched over the gravel driveway. The car doors opened. Sebastian stepped out first. He looked haggard, his tan uneven, his shirt wrinkled. He scanned the trees, his eyes darting nervously, before motioning for Izabella to follow. She looked worse—her platinum hair pulled back in a severe bun, her posture radiating exhaustion and resentment.

They entered the cabin. I watched them move through the space like intruders. Sebastian checked the windows, pulling the blinds tight. Izabella went straight for the table.

“Five million dollars,” Sebastian said, his voice tinny through the hidden microphones. He picked up the welcome card, laughing—a jagged, hysterical sound. “We did it, Bella. We actually pulled it off.”

“Pour the drink, Seb,” she snapped, collapsing onto the sofa. “I need to forget the last three days.”

I watched, my breath held in my throat, as Sebastian popped the cork on the champagne. Foam spilled over his knuckles. He didn't care. He poured two glasses, filling them to the brim.

“To new beginnings,” he toasted, raising the glass.

“To getting what we deserve,” Izabella replied.

They clinked the crystal together. The sound was a delicate chime that echoed through the bunker speakers.

I watched them tilt their heads back and drink. I didn't feel triumph. I didn't feel guilt. I just felt the cold, hard click of a lock sliding into place.

“Cheers,” I whispered to the screen.