Chapter 2
Aria's POV
"Ready, Mrs. Konstantin?"
The doctor stood by the operating table. Metal instruments clanged—sharp, piercing.
I nodded from the cold table.
I'd spent all night thinking—I couldn't keep this baby. To leave Nikolai, I needed money, a safe place. And this child—not even mine—would be my biggest liability. As long as he existed, the Konstantins would never let me go.
But my hand moved to my belly anyway.
The baby thrashed inside me, sensing danger.
Was he begging me not to give up on him?
I bit my lip hard. Stop it. He's Nikolai and Scarlett's child. Once he's born, I'd have to watch them take him away, watch him call Scarlett "Mommy."
"Just breathe. Try to relax." The doctor moved closer. "You'll be asleep before you know it."
The anesthesiologist raised the syringe. The needle inched closer to my arm.
The baby kicked again—gentle, careful.
Tears came suddenly, unstoppable.
"Wait!" I shot up.
The doctor froze. "What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry..." I clutched my stomach, tears streaming. "I can't do this."
I'd already lost six. I couldn't lose a seventh. Even if he wasn't mine, even if I had to raise him alone—I had to keep him.
I grabbed my clothes and ran.
Driving to my parents' house, I couldn't stop shaking.
I didn't want to face Nikolai yet.
I needed somewhere to hide. Someone to tell me what to do.
I pushed open the door. Laughter from the living room.
Mom sat on the couch, spoon-feeding Scarlett truffle pasta. "Sweetie, eat more. You've lost weight."
"Mom, I really can't." Scarlett smiled weakly but opened her mouth for another bite.
Dad brought over hot tea, carefully handing it to her. "Doctor said you need rest. Don't go back to your apartment tonight. Stay here so we can take care of you."
The table overflowed with Scarlett's favorites—Caesar salad, tiramisu, takeout from her favorite Italian place.
I stood in the doorway, waiting. But their world only had room for Scarlett.
"Aria! You're here!" Finally, Scarlett spotted me. Her eyes lit up.
Mom and Dad finally turned.
"God, Aria, you look exhausted." Mom frowned, looking me over. "You're pregnant—you need to take better care of yourself. The Konstantins are counting on a healthy baby."
Not "Are you okay?" Not "Are you tired?" Just "Don't let anything happen to the baby."
"What did the doctor say?" Dad added. "Everything developing okay? We can't have any complications with this pregnancy."
I opened my mouth—I need help. I've been lied to. Please, save me.
But Scarlett's innocent eyes stopped me.
"Here, have something to eat." Mom waved at the table, grabbing a steak and dropping it on a plate.
Rare. Blood pooling around it.
I stared at that steak. My stomach turned.
Mom KNEW. She knew I'd never been able to eat bloody meat. When I was eight, she'd made steak for the first time. I'd taken one bite and puked.
But now she'd forgotten. Like she'd forgotten so many things.
Forgotten the cake I'd wanted at twelve—"Too expensive." Two months later for Scarlett's birthday, a three-tier fondant cake.
Forgotten my 105-degree fever at fifteen. She'd given me Tylenol, taken Scarlett to the park, left me alone for two days.
Forgotten when I got into an Ivy League at eighteen—all she'd said was "Nice." When Scarlett got into NYU, the whole family popped champagne.
It had always been like this.
"I really miss the lobster bisque you made, sis." Scarlett suddenly turned to me, smile sweet. "The one from Christmas last year—I still think about it. Could you make it again?"
"Aria, go make it for your sister." Mom immediately chimed in. "She's weak, needs the nutrition. And you're pregnant—you should be moving around anyway. Good for delivery."
I wanted to refuse. I was five months pregnant. Morning sickness hadn't completely stopped.
But seeing Mom and Dad's frowning faces, I stood anyway.
The fishy smell of lobster hit me.
I hunched over the sink, dry-heaving. Nothing came up. When I finally recovered, I forced myself to keep prepping.
The bisque bubbled on the stove.
I carried the bowl toward the dining room. Low voices from the living room.
"You're sure Scarlett can't get pregnant?" Dad.
My feet stopped.
"Doctor was very clear. Pregnancy would strain her heart too much. Too risky." Mom sighed. "Thank God for Aria... She's always been strong. A few more pregnancies won't hurt her."
The bowl shook in my hands.
"I feel so bad for my sister." Scarlett, crying. "Using her like this..."
"Silly girl, what's wrong with your sister helping you?" Dad comforted her. "Besides, she's your SISTER. Of course she'd help you have a baby. You've got a bad heart—should we just watch you risk your LIFE?"
They'd known all along. From the very beginning.
"Aria! Is that soup ready yet?" Mom called impatiently. "Scarlett's been waiting forever!"
I took a deep breath, forced back tears, and walked into the dining room.
"Thank you, sis!" Scarlett took the bowl gratefully. "You're the best."
As she lowered her head, her scarf slipped.
A dark red hickey covered her neck—fresh.
Scarlett "hastily" pulled up her scarf, but the triumph flashing in her eyes gave her away.
I remembered the perfume on Nikolai last night—Jo Malone Bluebell. Scarlett's scent.
He'd gone to her last night.
Dizziness swept over me. I gripped the table, forcing myself not to think about what they might have done.
Scarlett raised the bowl. Suddenly—her face went white. She clutched her chest.
"I... I can't breathe..."
The bowl slipped.
CRASH.
It shattered on the floor.
Scalding bisque splattered everywhere, hitting my arms and shins. My skin went red instantly. Burning like hell.
But no one looked at me.
"Scarlett!" Mom screamed, rushing over. "Baby! What's wrong? Quick! Call an ambulance!"
"No time!" Dad grabbed Scarlett as she went limp. "Hospital's twenty minutes away—her heart can't wait that long!"
The doorbell rang.
Nikolai pushed through. He'd come to take me home. Seeing the scene, his face changed instantly.
"What happened?" He strode over.
"Nikolai!" Dad grabbed his arm. "Scarlett's having a heart attack! Please—get her to the hospital!"
Nikolai didn't hesitate. He swept Scarlett up and ran. "My car's outside. Now!"
"We're coming with you!" Mom and Dad ran after him.
"Nikolai—" I tried to call out. My voice caught.
He brushed past me. "Stay."
Then—SLAM. The door shut.
Alone in the living room. Bisque steaming on the floor. Broken porcelain everywhere. The burn on my arm blistered red.
The pain was searing.
But nothing hurt like my heart did.
I slowly crouched down, staring at the mess.
Just like my life—broken, and nobody gave a damn.
