Chapter 2

Evelyn's POV.

My eyes shot to Vincent. 

My breath stopped in my throat. This was the moment he would step forward. He would shake his head, take my hand, and tell them to stop this crazy joke.

 I searched his face, waiting for the kindness I knew. The kindness that had brought me ice chips and told me I was brave.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Clarissa. And then, as if he felt my stare, his eyes slid over to mine.

There was no kindness. No apology. No secret signal.

The corner of his mouth lifted. 

Just a little. A small, cold tilt of victory. It wasn’t a full smile. It was worse. It was the quiet look of a man who has won a bet he never told you about.

The air left my lungs like I’d been kicked. 

The world didn’t go black. It shattered into a million pieces. 

Every memory, the first flutter I’d called a bubble, the late-night cravings for peach yogurt, Vincent’s hand on my growing belly, the dreams I’d whispered to the dark ceiling of a nursery I’d painted myself, every single one was now a lie. 

I had not been a mother betrayed. I had been a rented room. 

“How… is this possible?” I whispered, my voice shaking.

Clarissa picked up a glass and poured champagne and passed it to Vincent.

“I lied to you,” he said. “You never had an ectopic pregnancy, it was just a miscarriage caused by me.”

I gasped.

“Yes,” he continued, his voice cold. “Knowing how much you love children, I knew you’d agree to this procedure.”

“Why?” I asked, breaking down into heavier sobs. “I never begged to be engaged to you.”

“Well,” he said, “you’re not my type. Clarissa is.” He kissed her. Then he turned to my father.

“I want her kicked out of the hospital!” He barked, and two hefty men walked in, dragging me..

“Vincent, please!” The plea tore from my throat.

He stood beside Clarissa, his hand on the small of her back, watching. His face, the face I’d loved, was a mask of cool indifference.

 “Shut up.”

I thrashed, and the IV needle ripped from my hand. A bright bead of blood welled up and traced a path down my wrist. No one flinched.

 The hefty men kept dragging me. The night outside the hospital doors was black and cold.

“You can’t do this!” I screamed.

“I own this hospital,” Vincent said, his voice flat. “I can do anything.”

My father never looked at me.

The doors opened. Los Angeles night air, filled with rain, hit me like a physical blow. They released me with a final shove.

I stumbled down the concrete steps, the thin hospital gown clinging to my legs. 

They shut the door, locking me out. I turned, pressing my hands against the cool glass. 

I saw Vincent turn away. I saw Clarissa’s smile, a small, victorious curve. 

Rain poured down, soaking me to the skin within seconds.

I wished I had died with my mum that day. I never knew my mother. 

She died bringing me into the world, and sometimes I wondered if that alone was my first crime.

My step mum never forgave me for surviving. For inheriting what should have been hers to pass on to Clarissa. 

Every compliment I received only deepened her resentment.

She didn’t need to say it out loud. I learned early that my existence was an offense.

And Vincent. He had found me when I felt most alone. He was the shelter from that coldness. His love felt like a rescue.

 He wanted to marry me. He held me when I cried for the child I thought I’d lost. His hands had wiped my tears. His was the voice that promised, “We’ll get through this.”

 He had looked into my eyes, full of love for him and grief for our child, and he had performed the surgery of betrayal with perfect, precise cruelty. 

He didn’t just break my heart. He shattered the very reality I was living in.

My phone buzzed against my hip, tucked into the pocket of my hospital gown. A single text from Vincent.

“A settlement for your trouble has been processed. Do not contact me or anyone in my circle again. Or it will be revoked. Consider this a clean break.”

I opened the banking app, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely type. The rain blurred the screen.

A notification credit alert of five dollars. 

Five dollars. Not for a lost future, or a stolen motherhood, or a murdered love. For trouble. The final, perfect insult. It wasn’t compensation. It was a spit in the face. 

I sat there until the cold reached my bones. The rain plastered my hair, washed the blood from my hand, and mixed with the tears on my face. 

There was nothing left. No home. No family. No love. Just five dollars and the soaking ruins of everything I was.

My fingers were numb. I scrolled through my contacts. I stopped at one name: LINA. 

I pressed call..It rang once.

“Evie?”

At the sound of her voice, the first real sob tore out of me. I couldn’t speak. I just gasped into the phone.

“Where are you?” Her voice was sharp, clear, a rope thrown into a well. “Text me the address. Right now. Don’t move.”

I texted and hugged my knees. I didn’t cry anymore. I just stared at nowhere.

Lina was my college friend, a very distant friend. 

A car screeched to a halt twenty minutes later. The door flew open and Lina was there. 

She pulled me into a tight embrace, and I shattered. The tears came hard and fast as I told her everything, my voice breaking with each truth.

“Those monsters,” she hissed. “Get in,” she said, as she opened her car door. 

I took a single, shaking step toward the car.

Then another.

The door was still open. My choice. My first real one in a very long time.

And as I reached for the handle, I made a vow: This wasn’t an escape. It was my first step back. And I would make them pay.