He looked straight into my eyes, his expression a mask of pure devotion.

“They had to perform a hysterectomy, Shelby.”

“I am so sorry.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

It was a beautiful performance.

But I remembered the bitter, metallic taste of the tea he had handed me before I blacked out.

I remembered the way he had insisted I drink every drop.

“A tumor?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing the back of my hand.

“Stage three.”

“But you are safe now.”

The door to the private suite pushed open.

A woman stepped inside, holding a designer leather bag.

It was Courtney Briggs.

She was Harlan Media’s leading lifestyle influencer, and my husband’s chief strategist.

She wore a fitted cream knit dress.

Her hand rested naturally, protectively, over her lower stomach.

There was a distinct, rounded swell beneath the fabric.

“Jared,” Courtney said, her voice soft but clear.

“The board is waiting for your statement about the restructuring.”

She did not look at me.

She kept her eyes locked on my husband.

“Is everything taken care of here?” she asked.

Jared stood up, releasing my hand.

He walked over to Courtney and placed his hand on her waist.

The gesture was intimate, practiced, and entirely instinctive.

“Yes,” Jared said, looking down at her stomach.

“The doctors have finished.”

“There will be no complications.”

Courtney smiled, a small, triumphant curve of her lips.

“Good,” she said.

“We need to clear the slate for the announcement.”

“The heir to Harlan Media deserves a clean entry.”

The words hung in the sterile air like poison.

I lay perfectly still under the thin hospital blanket.

The monitors beeped at a steady, rhythmic pace.

My heart was hammering, but I forced my breathing to remain slow and shallow.

They wanted me broken, empty, and discarded.

They wanted me to believe I was sick.