Chapter 2

He was silent for two seconds.

Then he sighed, his tone carrying a thread of exhaustion, as though my desperate plea was nothing more than a tired plot point in a bad soap opera.

"I looked at your prenatal report before I left—the doctor's notes in black and white say everything's normal, and you've still got two weeks until your due date. You're lying on the floor playing dead because you want to trick me into coming back from Rowena's side."

"These little games of yours are pathetically juvenile."

I gasped for air, each word requiring every ounce of strength I had left.

"My water… already broke… the baby will lose oxygen…"

"Colby, this is your own flesh and blood."

Through the speaker came a rustle of movement—the friction of fabric, Rowena's low moan, and Colby's voice going suddenly, impossibly soft.

"Rowena, is it hurting again? Don't be scared, the doctor's on his way."

After soothing her, he turned his attention back to the microphone. His tone shifted instantly from tender to cutting.

"Serena, Rowena is an orphan. In this entire world, she has no one but me."

"And you? You already have the Donna title that everyone envies. Why do you insist on competing with a girl who has nothing?"

"She borrowed your hospital bag—that's all—and you pull this disgusting stunt to force me back."

"You're rotten to the core."

My cheek pressed against the cold oak floor. Tears and cold sweat mixed together, splashing onto the back of my hand—warm yet desolate.

I stopped looking at the camera. I clenched my jaw, braced my elbows against the floor, and began crawling toward the entryway.

Glass shards pierced my palms, punctured the skin, embedded themselves in the flesh. I couldn't feel the pain.

Only one thought remained in my mind: Get out. Get out alive.

I made it to the entryway, pushed myself upright, and smashed the largest piece of broken glass against the door lock.

Time was precious. The agony had already drained me of any energy to search for a more suitable tool.

The glass shattered on impact, the jagged edge slicing open the skin between my thumb and wrist. Blood sprayed onto the cream-colored wall.

The lock didn't budge.

Colby's voice came through the speaker again, barely containing his rage.

"Serena! What are you doing! If you damage that door, there will be hell to pay when I get back!"

I ignored him. With blood-soaked hands, I tore through the shoe cabinet.

I vaguely remembered a spare key kept here.

Colby's housekeeper often locked a spare key in a hidden compartment at the very bottom of the shoe cabinet. He thought I didn't know.

If I could find the key, I could get out. I could survive.

I dumped everything from the cabinet onto the floor, and finally—in a small tin box at the very bottom—my fingers closed around a cold brass key.

I braced myself against the wall and stood, legs shaking, aligning the key with the lock.

It wouldn't go in.

I leaned in close, squinting in the residual light from the hallway.

The keyhole had been filled. Dried industrial-strength adhesive had sealed every millimeter of the gap.

The lock cylinder was completely blocked.

"Don't waste your energy."

Colby's voice carried a note of satisfaction.

"You think I don't know what a temper you have? Stubborn, impossible to control, always looking for a chance to bolt. I was afraid you'd use the opportunity to run out and cause trouble for Rowena."

"So before I left, I personally sealed the keyhole with Gorilla Glue."

"Serena, the rules are simple. All you need to do is be a good girl, admit you were wrong, and promise never to harass Rowena again. Once she delivers safely, I'll come home and be with you. Understood?"

I stood there, numb, listening to my husband's calculated confession of attempted murder. My back slid down the door panel, my body sinking inch by inch.

This wasn't negligence. This wasn't carelessness. This was premeditated.

He meant to strip me of every right to survive.

I tilted my head up and stared at the surveillance camera—its lens trained unflinchingly on my trembling body, like the barrel of a gun ready to fire.

"Colby, let's get a divorce."

The speaker went briefly silent.

Then came the explosion.

"Threatening me again! Serena, is this the only trick you know? You think saying 'divorce' will make me cave? What else can you do besides cry and throw tantrums!"

I closed my eyes. I didn't answer.

The contractions stacked on top of each other, wave after wave, like someone was taking a dull blade to my body.

Something was descending—heavy, unstoppable. I could feel it.

"Colby Blackwell."

I called his full name one last time.

"I don't want you anymore."

When I said it, I didn't cry.

Then, very calmly, I raised the brass key—metal slicing through the air—and hurled it with perfect aim at the surveillance camera.

The housing shattered on impact, the circuit board popped loose, the red indicator light flickered twice, and went permanently dark.

The living room returned to silence.

I lay in a pool of blood, gulping air that grew thinner by the second.

And then, without warning, the darkness came.