The Biker's Bride Wants Revenge

　　FIVE YEARS AGO

　　AURORA HALE

　　"How long has it been since your hysterectomy, Mrs. Hale?"

　　For a second, I honestly think Dr. Blaze is joking. Or maybe I'm hearing things.

　　"My what?" I laugh lightly, shaking my head. "No, no—there's been some mix-up. I've never had a hysterectomy."

　　Dr. Blaze's brows pinch together. "Aurora ... according to your scans, your uterus was surgically removed about three months ago. It would explain the absence of menstruation."

　　That stops me cold

　　But only for a moment. Then I laugh again, harder this time, because this whole thing is ridiculous.

　　I'm only here because I missed two periods. Normally, I'd brush it off—stress is practically part of my job description as head designer at Wardrobe, my husband's global fashion empire. But after Victor made me get an abortion, I needed to be sure I wasn't pregnant again.

　　"Doctor, I think someone filed something wrong. I only had an abortion. Three months ago. The procedure Victor arranged—nothing else."

　　Her face tightens. Not comforting.

　　"Did you experience complications? Any unusual pain afterwards?"

　　I blink at her. "It wasn't pleasant, but I wouldn't call it concerning. My husband handled everything—he found the clinic, made the appointment ... he would've told me if anything serious happened."

　　Right?

　　Right.

　　Dr. Blaze studies me in that slow, careful way she does when she's about to say something I won't like. "Aurora," she says gently, lowering the file, "you can no longer get pregnant."

　　My breath stutters. Something inside me goes still.

　　But I refuse it.

　　No. Victor and I have been married three years. We have a two-year-old daughter, Camryn. Our whole life—our whole marriage—is built on trust, on love, on the belief that we'd build a future together. I won't let someone's mistake tear through that.

　　"That doesn't make any sense," I say, too quickly, shaking my head. "Victor would never— this is just wrong paperwork. You must have mixed up the files."

　　She tries to speak, but I'm already standing, forcing a smile so bright it hurts. "It's fine. I'll call him. We'll laugh about this later."

　　I leave the office before she can stop me.

　　The second I hit the parking lot, my hands are shaking from the shock of it all—I smile in disbelief. This is obviously a clerical error. I can't believe they made a mistake on something this serious. Hospitals mess things up all the time. It's almost funny. A hysterectomy? Me?

　　I slide into the driver's seat and immediately call Victor.

　　He doesn't pick up.

　　I call again. And again.

　　Voicemail.

　　That's right, he's been busy lately. He should be having that important meeting with distributors in France he mentioned yesterday.

　　"Come on, Vic," I mutter, forcing a laugh. "Wait until you hear what the doctor said. You're going to die—she thinks I had a hysterectomy."

　　I imagine him laughing with me. Teasing me. Calling the hospital to bark at whoever misfiled my chart.

　　Because Victor always takes care of things.

　　Always.

　　A small ache flicks through my chest—the kind I get whenever I think about the abortion. I hadn't wanted it. I cried for days afterwards. But Victor said it was necessary. Said Camryn was enough for now. That Wardrobe needed stability, not scandal.

　　And saving our family ... saving our marriage ... I'd believed him.

　　Still believe him.

　　I wipe my eyes. "It's fine," I whisper. "This will all make sense soon. It's just a little scary for now"

　　By the time I pull into our driveway, my smile is wobbling. My palms are cold. Something in my chest feels ... wrong.

　　The lights inside are on. That's odd, Camryn should still be at kindergarten.

　　The front door is unlocked.

　　"Vic?" I call softly as I step inside. "Are you home? You won't believe my day—"

　　Then I freeze.

　　Clothes are scattered across the living room floor. A designer handbag sits on the couch. One I know very, very well.

　　The one I designed and sewed as a gift. Elara's bag.

　　Elara is Victor's cousin. His business partner. My best friend. The woman who held my hand through labour, who brought me soup when I hit a design slump, who promised she'd always protect Camryn. And me.

　　A soft moan drifts from the bedroom. Victor and I's bedroom.

　　My stomach flips. "No," I whisper. "No, they wouldn't—"

　　But when I push closer, I hear Victor's voice, low and breathless:

　　"Did you get rid of Camryn?"

　　Elara scoffs. "What do you take me for? Of course I did. But what about Aurora? If she finds out—"

　　"She already has," Victor says, amused. "By now she'll know I had her womb taken during that so-called abortion. Can you believe it? She actually thought I'd give her more children. If Camryn hadn't survived the pills I slipped into Aurora's morning coffee when she was pregnant, she'd be gone too. Now Aurora's finished, and we can finally be together."

　　Elara moans again, softer this time. "I'm tired of pretending to be your cousin. Why didn't you just kill her? Knowing she touched you—"

　　"Because we needed her," Victor snaps. "Her designs built Wardrobe. But she's done now. Completely disposable."

　　My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the doorframe. Hot tears blur my vision. I can't breathe. I can't think. But I force myself forward, voice breaking. "Where's my daughter?"

　　They jolt apart.

　　Elara smirks, tugging the sheet around her naked body. "Look who finally caught up."

　　"You bitch! After everything I did for you!"

　　She laughs, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. "Oh, you poor thing. I really did feel bad for you. Just not bad enough, apparently."

　　I launch myself at her, screaming, "Where is my baby? What did you do to Camryn?!"

　　Victor catches me easily, like I'm nothing. And right now, that's exactly what I am.

　　"Let me go!" I sob, clawing at him. "Camryn! Camryn!"

　　My throat burns. My chest feels split open. My mind can't hold the truth. It keeps slipping, like I can somehow reject it if I push hard enough.

　　"You monster," I cry. "Victor, please—she's our daughter—"

　　"Oh shut up, you pathetic woman," Victor sneers. "Where you're going, you won't have time to worry about anyone but yourself."

　　"Give me back my daughter! Give me back my baby! You killed my baby—you took my womb—"

　　"You killed your baby. Or did Victor ever force you to abort it?" Elara spits. "You're nothing but a murderous slut. If it were up to me, you'd have died with that womb."

　　Her words rip me apart. My wail shakes the walls.

　　BANG. BANG. BANG.

　　"Police! Open up!"

　　Before I can take a breath, officers storm inside.

　　He just points at me.

　　"She's right there. Aurora Hale. Arrest her."

　　"What?" My voice shatters. "No—no, please—I didn't—"

　　"Aurora Hale," the officer says as he yanks my arms behind my back, "you're under arrest on multiple counts of theft and fraud. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the court will appoint one for you. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Do you understand these rights?"

　　Victor's voice drips poison. "Did you think no one would find out you stole designs from struggling designers and claimed them as yours in our previous campaign? Were you trying to ruin Elara and I out of jealousy?"

　　"They're my designs!" I scream, kicking, sobbing. "Everything in that house is mine!"

　　Victor laughs behind me, pulling Elara against him. "Try proving that."

　　And as the cuffs close around my wrists, cold and final, something inside me breaks so loudly I swear the whole house hears it.

　　My faith.

　　My marriage.

　　My motherhood.

　　My life.

　　All of it.

　　Gone in one night.