Chapter 1

"Sign it."

Beside the red wine for our seventh wedding anniversary sat a divorce agreement.

Abraham—my husband, the man I'd followed from street-level grime to controlling half the city's underground business—looked at me with a calm so flat it was like he was disposing of a traitor. "Natalie's pregnant. She needs a proper status."

That Hollywood B-list starlet—his new fling of the past six months.

My palm went to my lower belly on instinct, where the surprise I'd just confirmed—one I'd planned to tell him today—was still warm inside me. "And what about me, Abraham?"

He frowned, lifting his head with impatience. "What?"

"I'm pregnant too, Ig. Eight weeks."

For a split second, I saw something flicker in his eyes. But in the end, only cold composure remained.

"Get rid of it." Not a ripple in his voice.

It speared through my last sliver of luck like an ice pick. I'd taken a bullet for him once. My uterus had been permanently damaged. I'd always thought that was a shared regret between us. Only now did I understand—he'd never cared.

"It's your child!" My voice shook.

"So what?" He snapped back, his gray-blue eyes stripped down to naked calculation. "Natalie is the heir to the Sterling family! She chose me! With her bloodline and resources, I can swallow the dock district whole. What can you give me? Want me to say it out loud, Gen? You're just an accountant!"

Sterling.

The surname I'd abandoned. The name my parents had forged with their lives and blood—and the name I'd sealed away with my own hands. The company's partial infusion of capital and the dock "concessions" were support I'd secured for him, yet he treated it as Natalie's "choice."

My breath caught. The absurdity surged up my throat—so sharp I almost laughed.

He took my silence for submission, his tone easing as if he were handing me a way out. "Listen. This is temporary. Once things stabilize—once I fully control the docks—we'll undo the divorce. Then we can try again. But right now? No."

My heart felt like it was seized by an icy hand, then crushed to pulp. I looked at the face I'd kissed countless times. It was as unfamiliar as a stranger's.

"Just to climb higher, you've gotten so ruthless that… you can even scrape away your own flesh and blood?" Every word tasted like I was chewing ice chips. "I won't agree. This is my child!"

Abraham's expression darkened instantly, the last shred of pretense tearing clean off. He pressed a concealed button beneath the table.

The study door slid open without a sound. Two figures like steel towers blocked the entrance—his personal guards.

"Take her to the hospital. Now. Clean it up." His order was short and merciless.

"Abraham! You can't!" I tried to fight, but hands like iron clamps locked my arms, another palm sealing over my mouth. They dragged me out of the study, down the hall, and shoved me into a black car. The entire process was fast and silent—as if everyone else in the estate had vanished.

In the private hospital's underground corridor, the air was freezing. Half pushed, half carried, I was taken into a surgical prep room. Doctors and nurses in sterile gowns moved in silence, as if this scene were routine.

"No… I'm not doing it! Let go of me!" I struggled wildly, but the gap in strength was hopeless. A nurse injected a sedative. A sharp sting bit into my arm, and my strength started leaking away.

Through the blur, I heard the doctor lower his voice:

"Mr. Mitchell, her chart shows an old uterine injury. This time… it may very likely cause permanent infertility."

Then I heard Abraham's voice—cold as metal.

"It's fine. Do it clean."

It's fine.

In that instant, the last bit of warmth drained out of me.

The anesthetic began to rise. Then—blinding surgical lights, the crisp agony of flesh being stripped away, and finally, endless black…

I don't know how long it was before I opened my eyes—my entire body collapsing into exhaustion, the hollow twisting pain still lodged in my abdomen, and a ceiling bleached white.

I was alone in the room.

On the bedside table sat the divorce agreement.

At the bottom, a dark red, startling fingerprint was pressed beside the printed name: "Genevieve Mitchell."

While I was unconscious, they'd taken my hand and "signed" it for me.

A cold numbness spread outward. I reached for my coat, pulled out my private phone.

The screen lit up. The lock screen was covered by breaking-news push alerts. The top one was a TMZ urgent notification, paired with a high-definition photo:

BREAKING! Shipping upstart Abraham Mitchell goes public with Natalie Morrow! Both confirm pregnancy—due this fall!

The video autoplayed. On-screen, Abraham smiled at the camera—gentle and ambitious at once. He lowered his gaze to Natalie's belly like he was looking at the most precious treasure.

Nothing like the icy eyes that had ordered, "Clean it up."

The reporter's excited voice droned like a swarm of flies. The hollow pain in my abdomen surged back, vivid—twisting together with the sensation of my heart being scooped out.

Then, suddenly, everything went quiet.

All that remained was something cold and heavy—like sludge at the bottom of the deep sea—seeping up from my marrow, filling every corner of me.

I yanked the IV from the back of my hand. Blood beaded. Barefoot, I stepped onto the icy floor and walked to the window. Outside was Los Angeles—its dazzling nightscape that never went out, like a fake galaxy.

I switched my phone to another screen—the encrypted system hidden inside it.

Then I pressed the only number.

"It's me."

"Start the cleanup."

"I want them with nothing."

On the other end, an elderly voice answered with absolute obedience:

"As you wish."