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I woke up in the hospital after my husband tried to kill me in an explosion. The doctor said I was lucky—the shrapnel had missed my major arteries. Then he told me something else. I was eight weeks pregnant.

Just then, my husband, Julius, walked in. He ignored me and spoke to the doctor. He said his mistress, Kenzie, had leukemia and needed an urgent bone marrow transplant. He wanted me to be the donor.

The doctor was aghast. "Mr. Carroll, your wife is pregnant and critically injured. That procedure would require an abortion and could kill her."

Julius's face was a mask of stone. "The abortion is a given," he said. "Kenzie is the priority. Florence is strong, she can have another baby later."

He was talking about our child like it was a tumor to be removed. He would kill our baby and risk my life for a woman who was faking a terminal illness.

In that sterile hospital room, the part of me that had loved him, the part that had forgiven him, turned to ash.

They wheeled me into surgery. As the anesthetic flowed into my veins, I felt a strange sense of peace. This was the end, and the beginning.

When I woke up, my baby was gone.

With a calmness that scared even me, I picked up the phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in ten years.

"Dad," I whispered. "I'm coming home."

For a decade, I had hidden my true identity as a Horton heiress, all for a man who just tried to murder me.

Florence Whitehead was dead. But the Horton heiress was just waking up, and she was going to burn their world to the ground.

Chapter 1

The award ceremony was a blur of flashing lights and polite applause. I stood on the stage, the heavy gold medal in my hand feeling like a stone. Beside me, my husband, Julius Carroll, smiled his perfect, camera-ready smile.

To the world, we were the golden couple of New York architecture, the co-founders of Carroll & Whitehead. He was the charismatic face, I was the quiet genius behind the designs. They called our life a masterpiece.

They didn't see the cracks in the foundation.

They didn't see the way his eyes followed Kenzie Drake everywhere she went. She was the daughter of his late mentor, a fragile-looking girl with shadows under her eyes and a story of tragedy that she wore like a designer gown.

That night, back in our penthouse overlooking Central Park, the performance ended.

"You were brilliant tonight, Florence," Julius said, loosening his tie. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were distant.

"The design was solid," I replied, placing the award on the mantelpiece next to our other trophies. "It should secure the Hudson Yards contract."

He didn't respond. He was scrolling through his phone, a small, secret smile on his face. I knew who he was texting. Kenzie.

The next day, I received an alert from the bank. A transfer of five million dollars from our joint business account to a private one. I didn't have to guess whose. I called Julius.

"It's for Kenzie," he said, his voice flat, unapologetic. "Her father left her nothing. She needs a fresh start."

"Julius, that's our company's operating capital for the next quarter. That money is for payroll, for materials."

"We'll manage. Don't be so selfish, Florence. The girl is alone in the world."

He hung up.

That afternoon, I went to the gallery where Kenzie had just purchased a series of pretentious, overpriced sculptures with our money. I found the gallery owner.

"I'd like to buy that entire collection," I said, pointing to Kenzie's new acquisitions. "And I want them delivered this evening."

I paid double the price. When the truck arrived at our apartment, I had the movers place the sculptures on the terrace. Then, I picked up a sledgehammer from the toolbox. One by one, I smashed them to pieces, the sound of shattering metal and stone echoing across the evening sky. It was a beautiful, expensive noise. That was my five million dollars.

Julius didn't come home that night.

The following week, he presented my design for the Hudson Yards project to the board. He claimed it as his own, with a minor credit to me for "assistance." He announced that Kenzie Drake, despite having no architectural degree, would be the junior project lead. He was using my life's work to build a pedestal for her.

I didn't argue in the boardroom. Instead, I went back to my office and drafted an email to the primary investor, a man who respected my work above all else. I attached my original, time-stamped design files and a brief, professional note explaining that the project lead was now an unqualified novice, and I could no longer guarantee the project's integrity under these conditions.

The investor called an emergency meeting. The contract was put on hold. Julius was furious.

He stormed into my office. "What did you do?"

"I protected my work," I said calmly.

"You undermined me! You embarrassed Kenzie!"

"She has no place in our firm, and you know it."

He didn't have a response. He just glared, his jaw tight with a rage that was becoming frighteningly familiar.

I thought that would be the worst of it. I was wrong.

That weekend, I came home early from visiting my parents. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I walked toward our bedroom and heard noises. A low giggle that wasn't mine.

I pushed the door open. Julius was in our bed. Kenzie was straddled on top of him. On my side of the bed. On the sheets I slept on every night.

They froze. Kenzie let out a small, theatrical gasp. Julius just stared at me, his expression not of guilt, but of annoyance. Like I was the one who was interrupting.

Something inside me snapped. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I walked to the bedside table, picked up the heavy crystal lamp, and swung it with all my strength at Julius's head.

He crumpled to the floor, blood matting his hair. Kenzie screamed, a real scream this time, and scrambled off the bed, clutching a sheet to her chest.

I called an ambulance. The official story was that he'd slipped and fallen. He had a concussion and needed stitches.

Even after that, a part of me, a stupid, foolish part, wanted to fix it. This was my life, the life I had built, hiding who I truly was, just to be loved for myself. I couldn't let it all burn.

I gave Kenzie a check for one million dollars and a one-way, first-class ticket to anywhere in the world. "Leave," I told her. "And never come back."

She took the check and smiled. "You can't buy him, Florence. He loves me." But she left.

For a week, there was peace. A tense, fragile peace. Julius was quiet, recovering. He didn't thank me, but he didn't rage, either. I started to hope.

Then I came home from picking up our daughter, Ava, from school. The apartment was empty. Julius was gone. And Ava's room was cleared out. Her favorite dolls, her drawings on the fridge, her little pink coat-all gone.

My blood ran cold. I called his phone, again and again. Voicemail.

Finally, he answered. His voice was cold as ice. "You sent Kenzie away. You hurt her. Now you'll feel what it's like to lose someone you love."

"Where is Ava? Julius, she's our daughter! Don't do this."

"It's your fault," he said, his voice laced with a sick sort of logic. "You drove me to this. Kenzie is devastated. She thinks you're a monster."

"Kenzie is a liar," I said, my voice shaking. "I have the bank statements, Julius. I have the photos from the gallery. I know she's manipulating you."

He laughed. It was a terrible sound. "You have nothing. You don't understand our connection. She needs me."

"Where is our daughter?" I screamed into the phone.

"I have her at the old warehouse down by the docks. The one we were supposed to redevelop. You remember it, don't you, Florence?"

My heart stopped. He knew about the fire there when I was a child. He knew I was terrified of that place.

"There's a gas leak," he continued, his voice calm. "I have a detonator. You have ten minutes to get here and agree to my terms. If you're late, or if you call the police... well, you know what will happen."