Chapter 2

When I returned to the Webster mansion—a gilded cage disguised as a home—I walked straight toward Oscar’s study, that forbidden room he always said was “off-limits” for family security reasons.

The moment I pushed open the heavy door, a wave of cologne and cigar smoke rolled over me—the unmistakable scent of power, control, and masculinity.

My eyes swept the room, sharp and searching, until they landed on a faint metallic glint behind the wall-to-wall bookcase: a built-in steel safe.

Narrowing my eyes, I stepped closer. The keypad gleamed under the soft light. Without a second thought, I entered Ava’s birthday.

A sharp click.

The lock disengaged.

A humorless smile curved my lips—cold and bitter.

Of course. He used her birthday. The same man who never remembered mine, who always forgot our wedding anniversary, chose Ava’s date as the key to his secrets.

Inside, there were no jewels, no bundles of cash. Only documents—stacks of them. I flipped through page after page, and my blood began to freeze. Medical records. Forged accident reports. Bank transfers to several “family doctors,” each a bribe for silence. Every piece of evidence screamed the same truth: Oscar Webster had orchestrated everything. He had bribed, falsified, and planned my daughter’s death with the precision of a business deal.

And there, among the files, lay an organ transplant report—clinical, cold, undeniable:

Recipient: Ava Hanson

Donor: Rose Webster

Tears flooded my eyes again, blurring my vision—my daughter, my trust, the life I once believed in.

But what could I do?

The Websters were a beast of a family; I had only myself and the child in my belly to protect.

I inhaled deeply, forcing myself to stop trembling and keep my cool.

Even if I could not tear them apart, I would leave behind the proof.

Pulling out my phone, I carefully photographed every document, every signature, every transfer slip, every damning line. Then I restored everything exactly as it was, relocked the safe, and silently slipped out of the study.

Back in the bedroom—lavish, but cold as a tomb—the weight of helplessness washed over me again.

My hand drifted to my still-flat belly. This child… I had thought of him as a gift from heaven, a ray of light piercing the darkness Rose’s death had left behind.

But in this world built on betrayal, blood, and greed… how could I protect him? Was I about to bring another innocent soul into the Webster prison, only to let him become another pawn—another victim?

No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

My fingers shook as I picked up the phone and dialed a private clinic known for its discretion—Evergreen Clinic. The kind of place people in our world used when they needed things erased.

“Evergreen Clinic, how may I assist you?” came a calm, professional voice.

“I’d like to schedule an abortion,” I said. My voice was hoarse, every word slicing through me like glass.

“Of course, ma’am. Would tomorrow at ten a.m. work for you?”

“Yes.”

“Your name, please?”

“Gloria Hanson.”

My maiden name. I couldn’t risk using Webster—it would give me away instantly.

There was a pause, perhaps curiosity flickering on the other end. Then the woman’s voice softened. “All right, Ms. Hanson. We’ll see you at ten tomorrow.”

The call ended. I sat there, gripping my phone until my knuckles went white. My heart hammered like a trapped bird.

“You’re going out?”

Oscar’s voice came from behind me.

I froze. I hadn’t even heard him enter.

Hastily pocketing my phone, I turned, meeting his gaze with an icy calm I didn’t know I possessed. “Yes. A check-up tomorrow. Routine.”

He frowned slightly. “A check-up? You feeling unwell?”

“No. Just routine.” I turned toward the closet to hide my expression, pretending to choose nightwear.

His eyes followed me, sharp, suspicious. “Gloria… are you hiding something from me?”

“No, Oscar.” I paused, then added softly but pointedly, “Everything’s just perfect.”

Something flickered in his gaze—unease?—but he said nothing more. “Fine. I’ll take a shower first.”

The bathroom door shut with a click, followed by the rush of water.

At that moment, the screen of his phone on the nightstand lit up with a new message.

Without hesitation, I snatched it up and entered Ava’s birthday.

Unlocked.

My breath caught as I opened the pinned chat—Ava ❤️.

Ava: I already miss you. When can we see each other again? I’ll tell Ken I want to visit my sister.

Oscar: Tomorrow, amore mio. I’ll tell Gloria there’s an emergency at the company.

My throat closed. I scrolled down.

Ava: I’m tired of hiding, Oscar. I want to be with you openly.

Oscar: Soon, baby. Once I take full control of the Webster family, I’ll tell the world you’re the only woman I recognize. Nothing will stand in our way.

Bile rose in my throat.

So every time Ava “visited” to check on me, they had been meeting right under my roof. In my bed, maybe. In my house.

They plotted, they laughed, they celebrated their betrayal—while I wept for the daughter he had murdered.

I replaced the phone quietly, hands trembling so hard they barely obeyed.

My sister. My husband.

Two people who had once sworn to love me above all else.

When Oscar emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, droplets tracing his skin, he gave me a searching look.

I didn’t flinch. I stood at the window, staring out at the city—our city—drenched in the cold glow of crime and corruption.

And inside me, the fire of vengeance burned hotter, brighter, unstoppable.