My Crown, His End: A Vengeful Heart

The next morning, I dressed in black. A simple, severe dress for a funeral that only I would attend. As I descended the grand, curving staircase, a figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway. Gisele.

She blocked my path, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She was leaning heavily on a cane, but her posture was defiant. With a deliberate, theatrical gesture, she pulled down the collar of her silk robe, revealing a cluster of angry, purple bruises on her neck. Love bites.

"He was with me all night," she purred, her eyes glittering with malice. "He comforted me. He told me everything."

She took a painful step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You were just a placeholder, Adria. A convenient, capable body to do his dirty work. A shield. His loyal little soldier."

She paused, letting the words sink in. "Now that your baby is gone, what are you even still doing here? Don't you have any dignity left?"

I stopped. The urn containing my child's ashes, held tightly in my hands, suddenly felt cold as ice. I turned my head slowly, meeting her gaze. My own must have been terrifying, because a flicker of fear crossed her face.

"What," I asked, my voice a low, dangerous growl, "did you just say?"

"I said you're a substitute!" she spat, her bravado returning. "You were always just my stand-in!"

Her face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. She dropped her cane and lunged, not with a weapon, but with her hands clawed, aiming for the urn. "Give him to me! You don't deserve him!"

"Gisele, no!" Easton's voice roared from the top of the stairs. He was already moving, but he was too late.

I didn't sidestep. I moved toward her. In one fluid motion, I placed the urn safely on a nearby console table, intercepted her clumsy attack, twisted her arm behind her back, and slammed her face-first against the wall. A small, gleaming dagger, one of a matched pair I kept for decoration, clattered from a sheath on the wall onto the marble floor.

Easton reached us just as I pinned her there. He grabbed my arm, his face a mask of cold fury.

"That's enough, Adria," he said, his voice flat and hard. "It's over."

"He's lying," Gisele choked out, her face pressed against the plaster. "Ask him! Ask him if you were my substitute!"

I looked at Easton, my eyes searching his for a denial, for any sign that this was all a lie. I found none. Only a flicker of panic, of a cornered animal. He didn't deny it. He couldn't.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

While his grip on me momentarily slackened in his shock, I wrenched my arm free, snatched the dagger from the floor, and plunged it down into Gisele's shoulder, pinning her to the wall.

A scream, sharp and piercing, filled the hall.

A violent shove sent me sprawling backward. Easton kicked the dagger from my hand. He stood over me, his foot pressing down on my wrist, pinning me to the floor.

"I'll sign the divorce papers," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion.

The irony was so bitter it made me want to laugh. Yesterday, he'd said only death would part us. Today, he couldn't get rid of me fast enough.

He retrieved the papers from his study and threw them at me. They fluttered down, landing on my black dress like giant, mocking snowflakes.

He helped Gisele, pulling the dagger from her shoulder and supporting her weight. But she pushed him away. Staggering, clutching her bleeding shoulder, she walked over to the small table by the door where I had placed the box of my baby's things—the tiny clothes, the Peter Rabbit book, the first ultrasound picture.

She flicked open a lighter. The flame caught the edge of the cardboard box.

"Gisele, don't," Easton said, his voice quiet, but carrying no command. No force.

The flames grew, consuming the tiny memories of a life that never was. I tried to scramble forward, to save them, but a primal fear, born in a real fire ten years ago, rooted me to the spot.

Gisele leaned against Easton, a victorious smile on her blood-smeared face. "That fire ten years ago," she whispered, her voice raspy. "It should have been you. You should have burned."

Easton just stood there, his face a cold, impassive mask, and watched it all burn. He let her do it.

A black wave of hatred, so pure and potent it was almost beautiful, washed over me. The pain, the grief, the betrayal—it all burned away, leaving only the cold, hard certainty of revenge.

I started to laugh. A low, unhinged sound that echoed in the silent hall.

"You're going to feel this, Easton," I promised, my voice rising. "Every last bit of it. You're going to know my pain." I pushed myself up with my good hand. "And today, no one is leaving this house."

As the words left my mouth, the heavy iron gates at the end of the driveway slammed shut with a deafening clang. The front door of the villa boomed closed behind them.

Easton kicked the door, his composure finally cracking. "What is this, Adria? Let us out!" he roared. "You want a divorce? You'll get it. You want me dead? Fine! But let her go!" He pulled Gisele behind him, a protective gesture that felt like another knife in my gut.

I picked up the divorce papers and, with my one good hand, ripped them to shreds. "You were right about one thing," I said, letting the pieces fall to the floor. "Only death will end this."

"You and what army?" he sneered, gesturing to the half-dozen of his personal guards stationed in the foyer. "Kill her," he commanded them.

But his men didn't move. They stood like statues, their faces unreadable.

"I said, kill her!" Easton screamed, his face turning a blotchy red.

Slowly, deliberately, every single man in that hall turned. The muzzles of their assault rifles swung away from me and centered directly on Easton Price.

The lead guard spoke, his voice calm and steady. "Without the Young Miss's order, no one is leaving."

Easton stared at him, bewildered. "Young Miss? What the hell are you talking about?"

The villa was utterly silent, save for the crackling of the fire consuming the last of my child's memory.