Not Just An Incubator: The Ex-Wife's Cold Revenge

Brooke Myers POV

I tried to make it to the back exit, my heart hammering against my ribs, but they were already in the living room.

Caleb stopped dead when he saw me. He was holding a pizza box, of all things-a mundane prop in a nightmare scenario. Krystal was clinging to his arm, radiating a smug satisfaction that made my stomach turn.

"Brooke," Caleb said. His voice was smooth, layered with a practiced, synthetic warmth. "I thought you were at your mother's."

"I came for my things," I said. My hand gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my knuckles turned white.

Krystal eyed the bag.

"Make sure she didn't take the silver," she sneered.

"Shut up, Krystal," I snapped.

Caleb stepped forward, setting the pizza box down on the entry table with deliberate slowness.

"Let's not be dramatic," he said. "We can work something out. A severance package."

"I saw the phone, Caleb," I said, cutting through his negotiation.

His face went blank. The charm evaporated, replaced by the cold, dead look of a shark scenting blood.

"What phone?"

"The one in the Legacy box," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "The incubator. That's what you called me."

Krystal laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "Well, if the shoe fits."

Caleb lunged.

He was faster than I expected. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging cruelly into my existing bruise.

"Give me the phone," he snarled.

"I don't have it," I lied, forcing defiance into my tone. "I uploaded everything."

"You bitch!" Krystal screamed. She ran at me, raking her nails down my face in a blind fury.

I shoved her back with everything I had. She stumbled and fell onto the couch.

"Get her!" Krystal shrieked, scrambling to sit up. "She's going to ruin everything!"

Caleb grabbed me by the hair, yanking my head back. He dragged me toward the office.

"You're going to fix the code," he said, his breath hot and wet on my ear. "And then you're going to delete those messages."

"No!" I screamed. I clawed at his hands, my nails tearing at his skin, but he was too strong.

He dragged me to the Panic Room. It was a reinforced steel vault built into the wall of the office, intended to store cash and servers, not people.

"Cool off," he said.

He threw me inside.

I hit the floor hard. My hip slammed against the concrete, sending a shockwave of pain up my spine.

"Caleb, no!" I screamed, rolling onto my knees. "The baby!"

He paused for a second. His hand hovered over the keypad.

"The baby is fine," he said, his voice devoid of humanity. "You're just being hysterical."

He slammed the heavy steel door.

The lock engaged with a deafening thud.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

"Caleb!" I pounded on the door until my palms burned. "Caleb, please! I'm bleeding!"

Silence.

I slid down the cold metal door, my legs giving out.

The pain in my stomach exploded. It wasn't a cramp anymore. It was a tearing sensation, like something was being ripped away from the inside, violent and absolute.

I felt the warmth gush between my legs.

I reached down, my trembling fingers brushing against damp denim. My hand came back wet and sticky.

"Help," I whispered, the word barely a breath.

The air in the vault was cold. Recycled. Dead.

I curled into a ball on the floor, wrapping my arms around my empty stomach.

I was alone.

The darkness felt heavy, like it was pressing the life out of me.

I thought about the nursery I had designed. The yellow paint. The crib waiting in the corner.

I felt another wave of pain, sharper this time, a jagged knife twisting inside me.

I screamed, but the sound died in the soundproof room, unheard by anyone who mattered.

My consciousness started to drift. The cold was seeping into my bones, numbing the agony.

I closed my eyes.

And then, I felt nothing at all.