MORTEM

"Harder, Colin... what if someone from the gala walks in?"

The muffled whimper seeped through the crack of the mahogany double doors, accompanied by the wet slap of skin and rustling silk.

Gidget McFarland froze in the deserted VIP corridor of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The champagne glass in her hand trembled. She had spent two hours dodging producers and smiling through pleasantries to secure funding for her indie project—money she needed for her younger brother's cardiac medication. Her fiancé of three years, Colin Mueller, had excused himself thirty minutes ago for an urgent call.

She stared at the plain silver band on her finger.

She stepped closer. Through the gap in the doors, the dim light revealed the leather couch inside the private lounge.

Her step-sister, Dixie Hughes, was arched over the armrest, platinum curls spilling over bare shoulders. Colin stood behind her, tuxedo pants undone, hands gripping Dixie's hips.

"Let them hear," Colin grunted. "Gidget is still out in the ballroom making a fool of herself. She won't come back here."

Dixie giggled, tilting her head back. The beauty mark beneath her right eye caught the light.

"Be careful with my stomach, baby," she purred. "The clinic confirmed it this morning. Four weeks. When are you going to dump that penniless charity case?"

A folded paper slid from Dixie's clutch onto the rug. The black header of an ultrasound report was impossible to miss.

Colin kissed her sloppily. "Soon. Once I finalize the trust fund injection using her clean public profile tonight, I'll cut her loose. I've funded her sickly brother's bills for years. Done more than enough charity."

The blood in Gidget's veins turned to ice.

Three years. Three years of cooking his meals, ironing his shirts, giving up lead roles to protect his family's image, enduring his mother's sneers. And all along, he was sleeping with the woman who had made her life hell since their parents remarried.

Gidget did not cry. Her knuckles went white around the door handle.

She kicked the mahogany door wide open.

The crash echoed down the corridor. Dixie shrieked, scrambling for her wrap. Colin stumbled back, face draining, fumbling with his trousers.

"Gidget!" he gasped. "It's not what you think!"

Gidget walked in slowly. Her amber eyes were dry, burning with a lethal stillness. She stopped at the coffee table, gaze dropping to the ultrasound sheet.

"Four weeks pregnant," she said, voice eerily calm. "And you're waiting for the trust fund paperwork before you discard your charity case. Did I miss anything?"

Dixie recovered first. Her lips twitched with malice, then she leaned against Colin's arm, letting crocodile tears spill.