The Jilted Bride's Lethal Comeback

Harsh, blinding sunlight sliced through the broken blinds. It hit Danica straight in the eyes.

She gasped, waking from a nightmare of faceless men chasing her through dark hallways. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She sat up on the lumpy mattress. She reached for her phone on the nightstand. It had been plugged into the frayed wall charger all night.

The screen lit up. A wall of notifications.

Every major news outlet had pushed the story. Her face was plastered everywhere. The headlines screamed about the Thorne family's disgraced daughter.

She clicked on a financial news app. The stock market had just opened. The Parrish and Thorne corporations had officially announced a deep, strategic merger, using her "scandal" as the catalyst to clean house. Their stock prices were skyrocketing.

Danica gripped the phone. Her knuckles turned white. She was nothing but a pawn. A sacrifice for their corporate greed.

The phone suddenly vibrated in her hand. The caller ID showed the Chief of Surgery at the elite Manhattan private hospital where she worked.

Danica answered. "Hello, Dr. Evans—"

"Miss Kelly," the cold, clinical voice cut her off. He didn't even use her title. "Due to your severe violation of the hospital's moral clause, your employment contract is terminated. Effective immediately."

"Dr. Evans, the video is a fake. I can prove—"

Click.

The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Suddenly, her stomach twisted into a violent knot. A wave of intense nausea hit her.

She dropped the phone. She scrambled off the bed and sprinted into the tiny, filthy bathroom. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet and dry heaved. Her throat burned with stomach acid.

She grabbed the edge of the sink and pulled herself up. She looked in the cracked mirror. Her face was the color of ash. Dark purple bags hung under her eyes.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Fists pounded against the thin wooden door of her motel room.

"Open up, you slut!" a rough voice yelled. "We know you're in there!"

Danica's breath hitched. The paparazzi had found her. Or worse, Cailin's hired thugs.

She grabbed her heavy coat from the chair. She didn't look back. She climbed onto the toilet, pushed open the small, rusted bathroom window, and squeezed her body through.

She fell hard onto the wet concrete of the back alley. The impact scraped the skin off her palms. Dirty puddle water soaked her jeans.

She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the street.

Just as she reached the end of the alley, three men in hoodies spotted her. They were holding their phones up, recording her.

"There she is!" one of them screamed.

They rushed her. One of them threw a half-rotten tomato. It splattered against her shoulder.

Danica backed up, raising her arms to protect her face.

Another man picked up a jagged rock from the gutter. He hurled it with full force.

The rock struck Danica right above her left eyebrow.

Pain exploded in her head. Warm, thick blood instantly poured down her forehead, blinding her left eye. The metallic smell filled her nose.

She stumbled backward, her knees buckling. She prepared for the mob to trample her.

A deafening screech of tires ripped through the air.

A massive, armored black SUV slammed on its brakes, skidding sideways to block the mouth of the alley. It formed a steel wall between Danica and the attackers.

The doors flew open. Four massive men in black suits and sunglasses poured out. They moved with military precision, shoving the thugs back and forming a perimeter.

The tinted rear window of the SUV slowly rolled down.

Bethel Tanner sat in the backseat. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp, calculating, and deeply dangerous. He rested his hands on a silver-tipped cane.

Bethel gave a single, subtle nod.

Two bodyguards grabbed Danica by the arms. They practically lifted her off the ground and shoved her into the warm leather interior of the SUV.

The doors slammed shut. The heavy armor sealed out the screaming mob.

Bethel handed her a warm, damp towel. Danica pressed it against her bleeding forehead. The world swam in and out of focus. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath. Her ears rang, and Bethel's voice sounded distant, muffled.

The SUV navigated through a maze of backstreets. It finally pulled into an underground garage in Brooklyn. Danica was escorted into a hidden, state-of-the-art private clinic.

Nurses laid her on a crisp white bed. A doctor quickly stitched her forehead and drew three vials of blood.

Thirty minutes later, the doctor walked back into the room. He held a clipboard. His face was pale, and he looked extremely uncomfortable.

He looked at Bethel, then turned to Danica. He took a deep breath.

"Miss Kelly," the doctor said, his voice tight. "You are pregnant. And based on your extremely high HCG levels... it is highly likely you are carrying multiples."

Danica's brain flatlined. The room started to spin. Her hand moved on its own, pressing flat against her empty stomach.