My Husband Asked His Mistress to Steal Our Baby

The door opened hours later. I'd stopped screaming by then. The burns on my legs had settled into a constant throb that pulsed with my heartbeat.

Atticus entered carrying a first aid kit, his expression carefully arranged into concern. He knelt beside the bed, and I flinched.

"Let me see." His voice was soft. Gentle. The same voice he'd used when I'd told him about my parents' accident, when I'd cried in his arms and believed he understood grief.

He peeled back the sheet. The blisters had spread, angry and weeping. He opened the kit with practiced efficiency, pulling out gauze and ointment.

"Clara didn't mean it," he said, dabbing antiseptic on the burns. I bit my lip until I tasted copper. "She's just protective. You have to understand—we've worked so hard for this. For our family."

Our family. Not mine. Never mine.

"If you behave," he continued, wrapping gauze around my calf, "we might arrange visits. Once a year, maybe. You could watch him grow up from a distance. Wouldn't that be better than nothing?"

My throat closed. Once a year. Like I was a distant relative. A stranger.

"Your parents would be ashamed." He secured the bandage with tape, his fingers gentle. "Margaret Collins, that pillar of society, watching her daughter throw away everything for a man who never wanted her. Getting herself trapped like this." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "You're too unstable to be a mother, Delilah. You always have been. Running away from your responsibilities, hiding from your legacy. What kind of example is that?"

The words burrowed under my skin. My mother's face flashed through my mind—elegant, composed, everything I'd failed to be. She'd built an empire while I'd built nothing but delusions.

But then I remembered Clara's smile as the coffee pot tilted. The calculated cruelty in her eyes.

"You're right," I whispered. "I'm not stable."

Atticus's expression shifted, satisfied. He stood, gathering the medical supplies.

"But neither is she," I added.

He paused at the door. "Get some rest. We have a long night ahead."

They came for me at sunset. Clara swept into the room holding a garment bag, two guards flanking her.

"We're going out," she announced. "Our engagement gala. Half of Manhattan will be there." She unzipped the bag, revealing a dress the color of midnight. "You're coming with us."

I stared at her. "Why?"

"Because we can't leave you here alone. You might do something stupid." She pulled out the dress, shaking it. "You'll be my cousin. Unwell. Fragile. No one will question why you're quiet."

Dr. Chen appeared with her medical bag. I tried to fight, but the guards held me down. Another needle. Another cold rush through my veins.

The world softened at the edges. They dressed me like a doll, pulling the midnight fabric over my head. It was long-sleeved, high-necked, hiding the bruises on my arms. But it clung to my stomach, showcasing the slight swell that had begun to show.

"Perfect," Clara breathed. "You look almost human."

The limousine's interior smelled like leather and Clara's perfume. I slumped against the window, my limbs heavy, my thoughts sluggish. The sedative pulled at me, but I fought it. Focused on the streetlights sliding past, on the pressure of my mother's locket against my collarbone.

Atticus sat across from me, Clara tucked against his side. They thought I was unconscious. I let my head loll, my breathing even.

"The Whitmore girl," Clara said, her voice bright with excitement. "She's perfect. Twenty-two, just inherited her father's shipping empire. Completely overwhelmed."

Atticus's fingers traced patterns on Clara's shoulder. "Vulnerable."

"Desperate for guidance. For someone who understands the pressure." Clara shifted, and I heard the rustle of fabric. "I've already made contact. Coffee next week. She thinks I'm a life coach."

"How long?"

"Six months, maybe. Long enough to gain her trust. Then we introduce her to her 'perfect match.'" Clara laughed, the sound crystalline. "Your brother can play that role. He's been asking for another project."

My stomach turned. Another girl. Another trap.

"Seventeen down," Atticus murmured. "Eighteen if you count Delilah."

"I don't count her. She's still breathing."

The limousine turned, and through my half-closed eyes, I saw lights. A red carpet. Cameras flashing like stars.

"Show time," Atticus said. "Remember—she's your cousin. Exhausted from travel. Keep her close."

Clara's hand found my arm, her grip tight enough to bruise. "Don't worry. I won't let her out of my sight."

The door opened. Sound rushed in—voices, music, the click of heels on pavement. Clara hauled me upright, her arm around my waist, and I let myself be dragged toward the lights.

Seventeen victims. Seventeen lives destroyed.

And somewhere in the city, Hugo's phone was receiving my signal.

I just had to survive long enough for him to find me.