Chapter Four

Gemma's POV

On the third morning, a guard pushed in my meal and mentioned casually, "The Don says you can come out."

It took me two seconds to process what I'd heard.

I braced myself against the wall and stood, legs trembling, but my chest loosened for the first time in days—the baby was still there. Once I got out, there'd be a chance.

Light spilled down from the top of the stairs, blinding. I climbed step by step, and when I looked up, Beatrice stood at the exit, makeup flawless, a knowing smile playing at her lips, as if she'd been waiting.

I didn't stop. I moved to walk past her.

"She's running!"

She seized my wrist, nails digging into flesh. "Someone help! Gemma's trying to escape!"

"Rowan sent the guard to let me out."

"You're lying. Rowan would never—"

Her heel slipped.

I didn't have time to reach for her. Beatrice tumbled down the stairs and hit the stone floor, hands clutching her abdomen. Crimson spread between her thighs. Her voice tore through the air, "My baby..."

My parents appeared from nowhere. Father rushed to her side. Mother whipped her head toward me, eyes like knives. "You monster. You killed your sister's child!"

Rowan and his men emerged at the exit. One glance at Beatrice on the ground and his expression changed, each step toward me heavy with frozen rage.

Father spoke first, his voice carrying a carefully calibrated tremor. "Gemma pushed Beatrice. We both saw it—Beatrice was only trying to stop her, but she attacked."

Mother choked up on cue. "Beatrice was carrying your child. She wanted to surprise you when you got back. Now because of Gemma, she's killed your baby..."

"The guard told me you were releasing me. I didn't push her. She slipped."

Rowan's eyes locked on mine. "I saw you push her with my own eyes."

My heart plummeted. I searched his eyes—eyes I thought I knew, now alien. Calm, certain, as if he'd already chosen what to believe.

I opened my mouth, but Mother's wailing rose sharply. "Beatrice was three months along! A Sinclair child, gone just like that..."

Rowan's hand slowly clenched into a fist, knuckles white, something inside him collapsing inch by inch. He raised his head, eyes bloodshot, voice hoarse and unfamiliar. "Which hand pushed her? You killed my child. You'll pay for this."

I didn't answer.

The gunshot came fast. Searing pain tore through my left arm. I slammed into the wall, arm hanging useless, blood trickling through my fingers, dripping onto the stone. I bit my lip hard, fighting the urge to cry out.

"No one treats her wound."

His men dragged me back through the iron door, shoved me inside, locked it.

I collapsed to the floor, pressing my good hand over the wound. Blood seeped through my fingers, unstoppable. Father's voice drifted in from outside, calm as if discussing someone else's business. "Rowan, she killed your child. Don't go soft." Mother added lightly, "She's better off dead."

I pressed my forehead against the stone wall, eyes closed, repeating to myself: the baby's still there. Survive this and there'll be a chance.

The cramping struck without warning. I gasped, curling inward as waves of pain rolled through me. I tried to rise, but my arm buckled and I collapsed. The cold stone pressed against my face, offering brief clarity before another wave hit, deeper than before. Consciousness slipped away.

When I woke, Beatrice crouched by the door, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "Sister, I should thank you."

I lifted my head.

"That child was trouble anyway. Rowan would've found out eventually." She tilted her head. "But thanks to you, it's handled. Better yet, he's so guilt-ridden he's marrying me to make amends. The wedding's in five days."

Her footsteps faded. The corridor fell silent.

I looked down. Warmth between my legs. I thought it was sweat, but my hand came away red.

I stared at the blood for a long time, mind blank yet understanding everything.

The baby was gone. Rowan had killed it.

My last life ended like this too—alone, cold, dark. No one knew. No one cared.

I thought starting over would change things. But even now, Rowan still chose their lies.

I closed my eyes. I didn't cry.

Days blurred together. Bread came through the door—hard, cold, choking. I ate it all. Staying alive was all that mattered. As long as I lived, Lachlan might come. I didn't know if he would, but I waited. Until the noise outside grew—the wedding had begun.

The iron door opened.

"I'm getting you out."

The voice was unfamiliar in exactly the right way, so right I suspected a trap. I didn't look up.

Then someone lifted me straight into their arms.

I froze for a second, looked up—Lachlan. His brow furrowed, gaze falling on my arm before quickly shifting away. He said nothing.

Above the estate, rose petals fell from the sky, spreading everywhere, mixed with glittering fragments of diamonds and gems that sparkled in the sunlight, blanketing the entire lawn.

I stared. "What is this—"

"A wedding gift." He carried me forward, voice flat as if discussing the weather. "For Don Sinclair."

I turned my head. Through the crowd, Beatrice stood in her white gown, face upturned, laughing. Rowan beside her in a sharp suit, cold as stone.

Rose petals fell from above, covering the lawn with glittering gems, beautiful as a dream.

In Lachlan's arms, I watched the petals drift down. My eyes stung.

Not for Rowan. Not for that marriage. Just because I was alive—still seeing the sky, still being held, still breathing.

I swallowed hard and whispered, "I hope he enjoys his wedding present."

Lachlan's arms tightened. He said nothing.

Someone else's ground beneath my feet. A sky of falling roses above. And I, finally, was no longer a prisoner.