Chapter Three

Gemma's POV

"Beatrice rushed to find you and got into a car accident on the way—is this what you wanted?"

"I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" He leaned down, his gaze bearing down like a stone lodged in my throat. "You were jealous of her, so you chose today to pull this runaway stunt!" He straightened and turned to his men in the corner, his tone sharp as a snapping twig. "Take her back. Lock her in the dungeon. Let her think things through."

Lachlan moved, stepping forward. "Sinclair—"

No shot rang out, but the gun was already drawn. Rowan turned, barrel aimed at Lachlan's chest, no excess movement—like handling a trivial matter.

My heart plummeted.

Rowan Sinclair. No one in this city dared stand an extra second at gunpoint. Whoever he marked for disappearance wouldn't even leave ashes behind. Now that gun was trained on Lachlan, steadier than his gaze.

Lachlan didn't retreat. His eyes found mine over Rowan's shoulder—don't agree.

But I couldn't gamble with his life.

"Wait." My voice came out steadier than expected. "I'll go with you."

Lachlan's fists clenched white-knuckled, but he said nothing more.

Rowan holstered his gun without another glance at me and strode out.

Several men closed in—not escorting, but hauling cargo. They gripped my arms, dragged me through the corridor and shoved me into the car. At the dungeon door, they pushed so hard my knees hit stone. I caught myself with my palms before collapsing completely.

The iron door slammed shut. Light narrowed to a sliver, then vanished.

I sat in the darkness for a long time, hand slowly covering my abdomen. The baby had to be safe.

After what felt like hours, crying echoed down the corridor.

Beatrice's voice—soft, nasal, each sob perfectly calibrated.

"You shouldn't lock her up... It's my fault. I was too hasty, running out alone and getting into that accident... It has nothing to do with her..."

"It's not your fault." Rowan's voice dropped half a register from the hospital. "She's the one who chose to pull this tonight."

Beatrice sobbed harder, voice lower, as if struggling to defend me. "She just panicked. She's afraid I'll threaten her position. But I wouldn't... How could I steal her man, even if he was... supposed to be my fiancé..."

Those words—"supposed to be"—trembled just right when they left her lips.

Through the door's gap, I watched Rowan pull Beatrice into his arms, hand cradling her head, patting gently.

"I was always meant to marry you." His voice was low, just loud enough for me to hear. "If she hadn't schemed her way into marrying me, none of this would have happened. All these years you were alone out there—you've suffered."

I dug my nails into my palm.

The pain was real. So was the clarity.

Years ago, Rowan was just a regional heir with a few smuggling routes—nothing in the underworld hierarchy. My parents thought Beatrice too good for such a "bandit." She fled the engagement without a word. Their solution? Send me as replacement. We looked alike. He'd barely seen her. Marrying me off to him was damage control.

I didn't resist. I had nowhere to go.

After the wedding, he changed. He'd hold me through nightmares, shield me from mockery. I thought it was real—that we might have a future.

Over three years, Rowan became a Don. When word spread, Beatrice returned with tears and a story: I'd driven her away and stolen her place. My parents backed her version without hesitation.

And Rowan believed it. Or rather, he'd been waiting for her to come back all along.

I thought he'd stand by me. Instead I got betrayal and a child dying silently in my womb.

I pressed the back of my hand against my eyes, trapping the sob in my throat. Only tears escaped.

The corridor fell silent. As Rowan started to pull away, Beatrice looped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He froze for a second, then tightened his hold. They leaned into each other.

I looked away.

After a long moment, Beatrice lowered her voice. "If... she really doesn't want to stay, if she has someone else outside, maybe you could let go. Just divorce her."

"She loves me." Rowan's tone was flat, emotionless. "There's no other man."

"Then do you want to be with me—"

"Enough." He cut her off. "I'll decide. For now, don't let her break down and cause problems." Before he finished, hurried footsteps approached. A subordinate whispered something, and Rowan's footsteps quickly faded down the corridor.

In the light, Beatrice's face slowly changed.

The gentle mask peeled away, revealing something cold beneath. The iron door creaked open. She walked in, gripped my chin, and forced my face up. After examining me, she patted my cheek—identical to her own.

"This face is the only reason he can't let you go yet." She sneered, and the second pat came with brutal force. "Don't think you'll last much longer. I have plenty of ways to make him throw you out."

From the shadows, my parents emerged.

"Don't worry, Beatrice." Mother's voice dripped honey as she took Beatrice's arm, eyeing me like discarded furniture. "We wasted our hopes on someone useless. She brought us nothing but shame."

Father nodded, not bothering to even look at me.

"Hang in there." Mother spoke softly. "Once you become Mrs. Sinclair, no one will dare cross us again."

Their laughter spilled out as the corridor settled into stillness like stagnant water.

My phone vibrated. Unknown number.

I answered. Lachlan's voice came through, low and clear. "I know what happened. I'll help you."

I closed my eyes.

Some things couldn't be repeated. The baby was still here, and I had only one path left.

"I need to leave," I said. "The sooner, the better."