My Crown, His End: A Vengeful Heart

The first night back in the house we once called home, I sat on the floor of the nursery. The walls were painted a soft, gender-neutral yellow. A mobile of fluffy white clouds hung over an empty crib. I was methodically sorting through a box of baby clothes, folding tiny onesies that would never be worn, when the bedroom door creaked open.

Easton stood there, his face etched with an exhaustion that felt utterly fraudulent. He looked from my flat stomach to the tiny, Peter Rabbit-themed book in my hand, and his breath caught.

Just last month, he'd sat in this very spot, reading that book aloud to my belly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He'd kissed my forehead and promised to make up for the university education I'd abandoned to help him build our empire. "Our child will have everything, Adria," he'd sworn. "And so will you."

His footsteps were soft on the plush carpet as he approached, a predator's stealthy grace that I once found thrilling. Now, it just made my skin crawl. He sighed, a sound heavy with a sorrow that felt utterly rehearsed, and snatched the book from my hands.

"Stop this," he said, his voice rough. "Stop torturing yourself."

He tossed a sheaf of papers onto the pile of baby clothes in my lap. I unfolded them. It wasn't a hospital report. It was a divorce settlement. Generous, swift, and utterly insulting.

"Are you satisfied now?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. I looked up at him, my own grief a cold, dead weight in my chest. "You got what you wanted. The test was a success. The 'cargo' has been disposed of. So what is this? Severance pay?"

His face tightened. "Don't be like that, Adria. What happened... it was a tragedy. An accident."

"Was it an accident, Easton?" I snarled, scrambling to my feet. "Or was it the desired outcome? Did you forget I was pregnant when you set your little trap? Did you forget about our child, the one you swore to protect, while you were playing games to impress your new whore?"

"She made a mistake," he ground out. "But what you did to her at the warehouse—"

"Whoever makes the mistake pays the price," I cut him off, my voice rising. "My only regret is that I didn't cripple her when I had the chance!"

A raw, primal scream tore from my throat. I ripped at the hem of my silk nightgown, wanting to claw at my own skin, to tear out the emptiness inside me. I had to get out, had to find a weapon, had to make him feel a fraction of the agony that was consuming me.

As I lunged for the door, he grabbed me, his arms locking around me from behind. And then he froze. His hands, which had landed on my waist, stilled. His entire body went rigid against my back. He had finally, truly registered it. The softness was gone. The curve of my belly, which he used to trace with such reverence, was gone.

"Adria," he choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, horrifying understanding. "Your... the baby..."

"It's my fault," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, his body shaking with sobs. "It's all my fault. I'm so sorry."

His tears soaked the shoulder of my nightgown, hot and wet. It was a painful echo of ten years ago, trapped in that burning building, when we'd held each other tightly, believing we were about to die. His tears had been real then. I think.

A cold draft from the open door blew across my bare legs, snapping me out of the memory. The past was a ghost, and I was done being haunted.

"Easton," I said, my voice clear and cold.

"Shh, it's okay, baby, I'm here now," he murmured, trying to pull me closer.

"Get out," I said, shoving against his chest with all my might. I stumbled back, catching myself on the doorframe. I pushed him into the hallway and slammed the door shut, locking it just as his fist began to pound against the wood.

"Adria, please, let me in! We need to talk! This isn't just about us anymore!"

But another voice cut through his desperate pleas—this one tinny and sharp, coming from the phone he'd dropped in the hallway. Gisele.

"Easton, is she signing it?" she shrieked through the speaker. "You have five seconds before I send that video of your precious 'security failure' to Sterling and every other client we have! Are you feeling sorry for her now? Did you forget what she did to me? She humiliated me!"

Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. "She deserved to lose that baby! It deserves to rot in hell with her!"

I heard Easton snatching the phone up, trying to placate her, his voice a low murmur. Then I heard him say the words that finally, irrevocably, severed the last thread of our connection.

"Shh, Gis, don't cry. I'm here. I'll handle it. I'll give you anything you want, I promise."

Five years ago, after my first miscarriage—the one we had always blamed on a botched security operation where I'd taken a hard fall—he had held me in his arms in a hospital room just like the one I'd just left. He had wept and made that exact same promise. "I'll give you anything you want, Adria. I promise." Back then, I'd believed his grief. Now, hearing him offer the same cheap comfort to his mistress, a cold certainty settled in my gut. He hadn't been grieving our loss; he'd been celebrating his success.

His promises, I realized with a devastating finality, were cheap. They were worthless. And utterly, laughably, disposable. The only thing left to do was make him pay for them.