Dumped, Because His "HER" Is Back

The rain in the city didn’t wash things clean; it only turned the dust into grime. I sat on a plastic chair in a laundromat that smelled of cheap detergent and damp wool, watching my meager belongings spin in a repetitive, dizzying circle.It had been thirty days since I walked out of the Blackwood Estate. Thirty days since I traded silk sheets for a thin mattress in a studio apartment where the heater rattled like a dying man.I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders. It was the same coat Lucian had draped over me on the night of our third anniversary. I should have thrown it away. I should have burned it. But on nights when the wind whistled through the gaps in my window frame, the faint, lingering scent of his sandalwood cologne was the only thing that kept the shivering at bay.My stomach gave a sudden, violent lurch.I bolted for the small, grimy restroom in the back of the laundromat, barely making it to the sink before the morning sickness took hold. It wasn't just nausea;

The first month of freedom didn’t feel like a victory; it felt like a slow, dull ache in a limb that was no longer there.I sat in my studio apartment, the walls peeling and the air smelling of old wood and the cheap crackers I ate to keep the nausea at bay. My bank account was a desert. I had refused Lucian’s millions, a gesture of pride that felt noble in the heat of a divorce but felt increasingly reckless now that I was responsible for a second heartbeat.I looked at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. My skin was sallow, and there were dark circles under my eyes that no amount of makeup could hide."Get it together, Evelyn," I whispered to the glass. "He doesn't want you. He wants her. And if you collapse now, she wins twice."The thought of Sarah—her perfect hair, her effortless laugh, her way of reclaiming what she had once discarded—acted like a spark in the dark. I pulled out my old laptop. Before I was Mrs. Lucian Blackwood, I was an honors graduate in Graphic Desi

The air in the "Luna Gallery" was thick with the scent of expensive champagne and desperation. It was one of the few social events I couldn't avoid. As "E.V. Designs," I had landed the contract to design the visual identity for the city’s most prestigious art gala. My work was plastered on every wall—sleek, minimalist, and haunting.I stood in the corner, wearing a high-necked black dress that hid my growing bump and the jagged bob that had become my armor. The thick-rimmed glasses stayed on. I was a shadow in a room full of neon lights."The artist is a genius," a woman whispered nearby, gesturing to my main installation. "It feels like... mourning. Like someone who lost a war but refused to surrender."I gripped my water glass. They were talking about me, yet they had no idea I was standing right there. For three years, I had been the "Blackwood Doll," a woman whose only job was to look beautiful and remain silent. Now, I was a voice without a face. It was safer this way.Suddenly,

The red dot danced across the glass of my window, a tiny, lethal spark that looked like a ladybug from a distance. But I wasn't a fool. I had lived in the Blackwood world long enough to know what death looked like when it came knocking.My heart didn't just race; it tried to escape my chest. I didn't think about my portfolio or my pride. I thought about the life inside me. I dropped to the floor, my sketchpad fluttering away like a wounded bird.CRA-A-CK!The sound of the window shattering was deafening. Glass rained down on me, sharp shards slicing into the back of my hand. I crawled toward the hallway, the smell of cordite and rain filling my small sanctuary."Evelyn! Get down!"The door to my apartment didn't just open; it exploded off its hinges.I screamed, covering my head, but then a weight—heavy, warm, and smelling of rain and the faintest hint of sandalwood—slammed into me, pinning me to the floor."Don't move," he hissed.I would know that voice in the middle of a hurricane.

The Citadel didn't look like a home. It was a monolith of glass and reinforced steel, perched on a cliffside where the Atlantic crashed against the rocks below. Inside, the air was filtered, silent, and smelled of ozone. It was a fortress designed to survive an apocalypse, and yet, as the heavy blast doors sealed behind us, I felt more exposed than I ever had in my crumbling studio apartment."Take her to the East Wing," Lucian barked, not looking at me. He was stripping off his ruined suit jacket, revealing the holster strapped to his ribs. "Marcus, I want a full sweep of the perimeter. If a bird flies over this cliff, I want to know its heartbeat.""Lucian, wait—" I started, stepping toward him.He turned, and for the first time in the light of the foyer, I saw the blood on his shirt. It wasn't mine."You're hurt," I whispered, my anger momentarily replaced by the instinct that had governed my life for three years. I reached out to touch the dark stain on his shoulder.He flinched b