The Three-Year Lie: Her Sweet Revenge

Erica POV:

The revulsion was a physical force, a tidal wave of disgust that my body couldn't contain. I scrambled away from Emmanuel, from his touch, from the very air he breathed, and barely made it to the bathroom before I retched. I knelt over the toilet, my body convulsing as I threw up, not just the meager food I'd eaten, but three years of lies and poisoned intimacy.

Behind me, I heard Emmanuel' s footsteps. He stopped at the doorway.

"Erica? Are you okay?" He was trying to sound like Anthony again, the concerned, gentle fiancé. The performance was so ingrained, he probably didn't even know he was doing it.

I couldn't look at him. I could only see his hands on my body, hear his voice whispering my name, and know that all of it, every single touch, was a lie. The father of my child was a stranger wearing my fiancé's face.

"Don't touch me," I gasped between heaves.

He paused. Then, a new tone entered his voice, a speculative one. "You're not… pregnant, are you?"

My blood ran cold. I heard the faint sound of his phone dialing. He was reporting back to the mastermind.

"She's sick," he said in a low voice. "Throwing up in the bathroom... No, I don't know... What if she is?" There was a pause. "Right. No, of course not. We'll handle it."

He was talking to Anthony. And through the thin wall, I could practically hear Bianca's saccharine voice in the background, offering her fake concern. They would "handle it." The words were a death sentence for the tiny life inside me, a life they didn't even know existed yet but had already condemned.

A flicker of something-a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation-had crossed Emmanuel's voice. A moment of internal conflict? It didn't matter. He had made his choice. They had all made their choice.

I flushed the toilet and pushed myself up, splashing cold water on my face. When I turned, he was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, the mask of Anthony firmly back in place.

"Are you pregnant?" he asked again, his gray eyes-so like Anthony's, yet so different-searching my face.

"No," I said, my voice flat and dead. "It's just a stomach bug."

The next morning, I walked out of the OB-GYN clinic, feeling hollowed out, a part of me irrevocably gone. The procedure had been quick, clinical, and utterly devastating. I had mourned a baby that was conceived in a lie and would never draw a breath. I had mourned the mother I would never be.

As I stepped onto the street, blinking in the harsh sunlight, Anthony' s car pulled up. Anthony himself. The mastermind. He got out, a bouquet of my favorite lilies in his hand.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his voice the smooth, cultured tone I had once found so comforting.

I said nothing, just got in the car. He drove, the car filled with the cloying scent of flowers and silence. He put on music-an indie band Bianca loved. A subtle, constant reminder of who held his heart.

He took me to a lavish lunch at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Bianca and Emmanuel were already there, waiting.

"Erica! Darling!" Bianca chirped, jumping up to hug me. "We were so worried! I brought you a little something to cheer you up." She handed me a gift bag containing a ridiculously expensive silk scarf. A guilt offering.

The lunch was a masterclass in psychological torture. Bianca chattered endlessly, telling stories about her and the "Holden boys" growing up, painting a picture of an exclusive, impenetrable bond. Anthony and Emmanuel played along, laughing at her anecdotes, their gazes soft with affection. I was an outsider, a temporary guest at their private party.

"Erica, you're so quiet," Bianca said, pouting. "Don't be a stranger. We're going to be sisters soon! We should be the best of friends."

My stomach churned, and not from the rich food. A familiar tightness began to creep into my chest. My throat felt thick. I glanced at my plate. The sea bass. It was served with a peanut sauce.

Peanuts. I had a severe, life-threatening allergy to peanuts. An allergy Anthony knew about. An allergy I had listed on every restaurant reservation we had ever made.

My breath hitched. My vision started to swim. I fumbled in my purse for my EpiPen, my fingers clumsy and slow.

"Anthony," I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. "The sauce..."

He looked from my plate to my face, my skin now flushing a blotchy red. For a split second, I saw genuine panic in his eyes. He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He reached for me, his hand outstretched.

And then, Bianca let out a soft, theatrical gasp and slumped sideways in her chair. "Anthony… I don't feel so well," she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut.

Anthony froze. His head whipped back and forth between me, gasping for air, and Bianca, theatrically swooning.

His choice was made in a heartbeat.

He lunged, not for me, but for my purse. He ripped the EpiPen from my desperate fingers.

"Erica, give it to me," he commanded, his voice raw with a frantic urgency I had never heard from him before. An urgency not for me.

Before I could even process the betrayal, he had uncapped the needle and plunged it into Bianca's thigh.

My world went dark at the edges. I was dying. He was letting me die.

"She's a nurse, Anthony," Emmanuel said coolly, watching me slide from my chair. "I'm sure she knows what to do."

Anthony didn't even look at me. He scooped a "fainting" Bianca into his arms and ran from the restaurant. Emmanuel followed, not sparing me a single glance.

They left me on the floor to die.