The Three-Year Lie: Her Sweet Revenge

Erica POV:

Two days. I was in that suffocating darkness for two days. They let me out only for brief, humiliating trips to the bathroom, a bottle of water and a protein bar shoved into my hands before I was locked back in.

On the third morning, the lock clicked and the door swung open. It was Emmanuel, a smirk playing on his lips. The sudden light was blinding.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he drawled, his eyes raking over my disheveled form. "Time to go pick out your wedding dress. Wouldn't want you to be late for your big day."

The words were a cruel joke, but I was too weak and numb to react. He hauled me to my feet and pushed me toward the shower. "Clean yourself up. You look like hell."

An hour later, I was seated in the back of Anthony' s Bentley, sandwiched between the two brothers. Bianca was in the passenger seat, chattering brightly about the designer boutique we were headed to. I stared out the window, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks of color.

The boutique was a palace of white silk and shimmering crystals. Bianca, of course, took center stage.

"Oh, Erica, you poor thing," she said, pulling me into a one-armed hug that felt like a viper's embrace. "I told them they were being too harsh, but you know how protective they are of me." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you enjoy your time in the dark? It brought back memories, didn't it?"

I didn' t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I simply pulled away and gave her a small, polite smile. "It's in the past, Bianca. I'm just happy to be out."

Her own smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her eyes narrowing before she quickly rearranged her features into a mask of sweet benevolence. She didn't like that. She wanted me to fight, to cry, to give her something to play with.

She turned her attention to the dresses, pulling gowns off the rack with theatrical flair. "Oh, Anthony, darling, what do you think of this one for me? For the reception, perhaps?" She held a slinky, backless number against her body, preening for the brothers.

"Stunning, B," Anthony said, his voice thick with adoration.

"You'd look like a goddess," Emmanuel added, his eyes practically devouring her.

They were a perfect, sickening trio, completely ignoring my presence. I felt like a ghost, a prop in their twisted play.

A sales assistant, mistaking the tableau, rushed over to Bianca. "Oh, you must be the bride! You are going to be a vision. Mr. Holden is a very lucky man."

Bianca giggled, lapping up the attention. "Oh, no, you've got it all wrong! I'm just the maid of honor. Erica is the lucky bride." She shot me a look dripping with mock pity. "Anthony, darling, you've been so focused on me, you haven't even helped your fiancée pick a dress."

Anthony finally turned to me, his expression bored. "Have you chosen anything?"

"Not yet," I said quietly.

I walked over to a rack and pulled one out at random. A simple, elegant A-line dress. "This one is fine."

I went into the dressing room and let the assistant help me into it. When I stepped out, the main showroom was empty. The happy trio was gone.

"Oh, they went to look at veils," the assistant said brightly, oblivious to the cold blade of abandonment twisting in my gut. "They said to send the bill for this one to Mr. Holden's account."

I stood there for a moment, looking at my reflection. A pale, hollow-eyed stranger in a beautiful white dress. A sacrificial lamb being dressed for slaughter.

Calmly, I stepped back into the dressing room. "On second thought," I told the assistant, "I don't think this is the one."

I changed back into my clothes and walked out of the boutique without a backward glance.

Later that day, Bianca posted a photo of herself in a ridiculously expensive veil, the diamond embroidery catching the light. The caption: Practicing for my turn. @AnthonyHolden

I looked at it for a second, then closed the screen and continued packing a small duffel bag. I systematically went through the apartment, purging it of my existence. Every book, every piece of clothing, every photograph of us together went into a donation box.

I left only the things he had given me. The jewelry, the designer bags, the expensive art. Trophies from a hunt he had already won.

That evening, Emmanuel came into the bedroom. My bedroom. He was holding a small, velvet box.

"Anthony felt bad about what happened at the boutique," he said, his voice a soft, practiced imitation of his brother's. "He wanted you to have this."

He opened the box to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. I recognized them from a magazine Bianca had been looking at earlier. They were a consolation prize. A pacifier.

I took the box without a word. My cold compliance seemed to unnerve him.

"Are you still angry about the closet?" he asked, trying to read my expression. "Or about Bianca?"

I just shook my head, my eyes downcast. "I'm not angry."

A slow smile spread across his face. He thought he understood. He thought this was jealousy. He stepped closer, tilting my chin up with his finger. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice dropping into the intimate register I now knew was his, and his alone. "After the wedding, she won't be a problem. It will be just you and me... and him, of course."

His thumb stroked my lip, and my entire body went rigid with revulsion. He leaned in, his lips about to touch mine.

I couldn't stop it. A violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I tore myself from his grasp, clapping a hand over my mouth as I stumbled away from him.

"Erica?" His brow furrowed in confusion, the smooth mask of 'Anthony' slipping. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't answer. I just stared at him, at the face of the man who was the father of the child I was about to abort, and the only thing I felt was a profound, soul-deep sickness.