Blake's Late Confession

The wind whipped around me, chilling my sweat-soaked body as I hung suspended over the jagged cliff face. My swollen belly felt impossibly heavy, pulling me downward toward the rocks hundreds of feet below. Only the safety harness bit into my flesh, holding me in this torture chamber of open air and pain. Another contraction seized me, and I bit my lip until I tasted blood, trying not to cry out.

"Please," I whispered, my voice carried away by the wind. "Blake, please. Our baby..."

My husband stood at the cliff's edge, his tall figure silhouetted against the gray Seattle sky. Not a single dark hair was out of place. His tailored suit remained pristine despite the rugged terrain we'd traversed to reach this isolated spot. His face—once so beloved to me—was a mask of cold indifference as he checked his watch.

"Four minutes apart now," he noted clinically. "Still too close. The medication should have suppressed this longer."

I didn't recognize the man before me anymore. Where was the Blake who had once brought me roses every Friday? Who had whispered promises of forever against my skin? That man had vanished the moment Isabella Cruz had entered our lives—or rather, re-entered his.

"I can't—" Another contraction cut through me like a knife, more intense than the last. My body swayed dangerously in the harness. "The baby is coming, Blake. Please don't do this."

He adjusted his silver cufflinks—that small, precise movement I'd come to recognize as a sign of his irritation—and stepped closer to the edge. His voice, when it came, was devoid of all emotion.

"You know the terms of the family trust, Catherine. The first-born child inherits controlling interest in Winters Industries. Isabella's child must be born first."

"She's your sister-in-law!" I cried out, desperation making my voice crack. "Your brother's wife!"

A flicker of something dangerous passed across his face. "A situation of necessity, not preference."

I knew then what I had always suspected but denied: I had never been anything but a convenient placeholder. Blake had wanted Isabella from the beginning, but family expectations had forced him to choose a more "suitable" wife. So he'd married me while arranging for the woman he truly desired to marry his brother Liam.

Another contraction ripped through me, stronger than before. I couldn't hold back the scream this time as white-hot pain radiated from my core. Something was different—a warm rush of fluid between my legs, soaking through my clothes.

"My water broke," I gasped, terror flooding through me. "The baby is coming now. Please, Blake, I'm begging you!"

For a moment, something almost like conflict crossed his perfect features. Then it was gone, replaced by that same cold calculation.

"It's too soon," he said flatly. "Isabella isn't due to deliver for another day."

"Babies don't follow schedules!" I screamed, another contraction building. "This is your child! Your flesh and blood!"

The sound of footsteps on the rocky path drew both our attention. Eleanor Vance, the Winters family housekeeper for over thirty years, appeared at Blake's side. Her thin lips were pressed together in a line of disapproval as she surveyed my hanging form.

"Mr. Winters," she said, her voice carrying the practiced deference that barely concealed her contempt for me, "I've just received word from the main house. Mrs. Isabella has gone into labor. They're taking her to Seattle General now."

Blake's entire demeanor changed in an instant. Panic, concern, and something like joy flashed across his face—emotions he had never once shown for me or our child.

"Lower her," he ordered sharply, already turning away. "I need to get to the hospital immediately."

"But sir," Eleanor's eyes flickered to me with calculated concern, "what about Mrs. Winters? She appears to be in active labor as well."

"I said lower her," Blake snapped, already walking away. "Then get her to the doctor. Use the medications we discussed. The delivery must be delayed."

As the ropes began to lower me, I caught Eleanor's gaze. There was no compassion there, only a cold assessment. She waited until Blake was out of earshot before leaning over the edge.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Winters," she called down, her voice honeyed with false concern. "I'll make sure you receive the care you deserve."

Something in her tone made my blood run cold, even as another contraction seized me. The baby was coming, and I knew with terrible certainty that neither Blake nor anyone loyal to him would allow my child to be born first.

As my feet touched the ground, I felt a rush of warm liquid down my legs—not water this time, but blood. Eleanor's eyes widened at the sight, and for the first time, I saw genuine alarm in her expression.

"Oh my," she whispered, reaching for her phone. "This changes everything."