My Fiancé Let Our Son Nearly Die to Test Me

I returned to our apartment with leaden feet, Dawson's small hand clutched in mine. The truth I'd discovered at the Sapphire Lounge burned like acid in my veins, but I couldn't let it show. Not yet.

When Edward "returned from treatment" later that evening, he leaned heavily against the doorframe, his face a perfect mask of pallid suffering. The performance was flawless—if I hadn't seen him laughing with his friends, raising glasses of expensive scotch, I might have believed it.

"You look terrible," he rasped, his eyes darting to Dawson, who lay curled on our threadbare couch. "Is he okay?"

"He's just tired," I lied, forcing concern into my voice while rage roiled beneath my skin. "The doctor said his lungs are a little congested, but nothing serious."

Edward's eyes narrowed slightly. "You took him to the doctor without me?"

"I didn't want to bother you during your... treatment." The word tasted like poison on my tongue. "You have enough to worry about."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, and sank onto the edge of our bed. "I need my medication," he said weakly. "Did you get more?"

I pulled out the vial I'd stolen from the diner's supply cabinet. "It was expensive," I said, watching him swallow two pills with water. Whatever they were—vitamins, probably—they wouldn't hurt him. Unlike the "chemotherapy" I'd been giving him for months.

"I'll make it up to you," he promised, reaching for my hand. His touch, once electrifying, now made my skin crawl. "When I'm better, we'll have everything again."

I smiled and nodded, the perfect picture of a devoted fiancée. "I know, Edward. I know."

---

The next morning, I met Willow in Prospect Park, Dawson sleeping peacefully against my chest in his carrier. The spring air carried the scent of new blooms, a stark contrast to the decay of my life.

"You look like hell," Willow said bluntly, her dark eyes scanning my face. "What's happened?"

The story poured out of me in a torrent—Edward's cruel test, Mazie's complicity, Dawson's hidden heart condition. Willow's expression shifted from shock to fury as I spoke.

"That bastard," she hissed when I finished. "And that witch Mazie—she knew about Dawson's heart?"

I nodded, my throat tight. "I need to get him to Paris for surgery. Dr. Moreau is the best pediatric cardiac surgeon in Europe, but..."

"But Edward's billions will find you anywhere," Willow finished. She paced the gravel path, her mind clearly working. "We can't just run. We need to make him think there's nothing left to find."

"How?"

Willow's eyes met mine, determination hardening her features. "My mother works at the embassy. She has connections—people who can help us disappear properly."

She outlined her plan with the precision of a military strategist. New identities. Untraceable funds. A carefully orchestrated disappearance that would leave Edward searching for ghosts.

"It won't be easy," she warned. "But I'm with you."

For the first time in days, I felt something other than despair. "Thank you."

---

Over the next week, I began selling off our meager possessions—the few pieces of jewelry I'd kept from my foster care days, the tablet Edward had given me before his "illness," even the antique clock that had belonged to my biological mother.

Each item brought in a little cash, which I carefully hid in a hollowed-out book of poetry. Not enough for Paris yet, but enough to start.

"I'm selling everything to buy you more medicine," I told Edward when he questioned the disappearance of the tablet. "The new treatment is expensive."

He kissed my forehead, his gratitude seemingly genuine. "You're an angel, Ember."

If only he knew.

On Friday night, I returned to the Sapphire Lounge. This time, I came prepared—a recording app running silently on my phone as I approached Edward's table.

"...can't believe she still thinks I'm dying," Edward was saying, his voice clear despite the background noise. "The look on her face when I 'coughed blood' last week—priceless."

I slipped my phone into my pocket, the evidence secured.

Three days later, I took a catering job at the Hunt family mansion. While serving champagne to Mazie's business associates, I slipped into her home office and found what I was looking for—Dawson's complete medical records, including the cardiac diagnosis that could save his life.

As I tucked the papers into my apron pocket, my hand trembled. The first step toward freedom had been taken.

But as I turned to leave, I caught sight of Mazie watching me from the doorway, her perfect smile hiding something calculating and cold.