CHAPTER 128: WHY NOW?

... free to suffer and start back from when I met you?"

I bit my lip, trembling as I picked up my purse with shaking hands. ’Not yet, Malcom. You don’t know what’s coming for you.’

"Enjoy your new life," he called after me as I walked out of the office, my heels unsteady against the polished floor.

The moment I stepped out of Malcom’s estate, the tears vanished.

Roxy was already waiting in her car, watching me from the driver’s seat with a knowing smirk. As soon as I got in, she revved the engine and peeled away from the curb.

"That," she said, voice dripping with amusement, "was an Oscar-worthy performance."

I exhaled, finally letting go of the suffocating weight of the moment. "He bought it?"

"Oh, he BATHED in it." Roxy laughed, shaking her head. "You should’ve heard his voice the way I did. The man thinks he won the jackpot."

I smirked, resting my head against the window. "Good. Let him think that for now."

"Still," Roxy mused, "I have to admit, you

*****

Roxy’s restaurant was a temple of wealth—dim lights, imported spices, and synchronized waiters. She led me to a private booth, sliding in across from me.

"Now that you’re officially free, we celebrate."

I forced a smile. "I’m not in the mood."

Roxy signaled the waiter. "Two of Eve’s usual."

My stomach twisted. I couldn’t afford alcohol—not now.

"I’ll take water," I said lightly.

Her smirk flickered but didn’t waver. "Not even for old times’ sake?"

The waiter returned, placing a cocktail in front of me. The scent churned my stomach. I pushed it away.

Roxy’s eyes sharpened ever so slightly.

"Water," she called to the waiter, lips curling.

The glass arrived. I took a cautious sip.

"So, Eve—how does freedom feel?"

"Lighter," I murmured, my throat dry.

Her nails tapped against the table. "And Malcom? Think he’ll come crawling back?"

I scoffed. "He’ll convince himself I was the mistake."

Roxy chuckled.

I took another sip—

The room blurred at the edges.

My heart skipped, then pounded, a frantic rhythm in my chest.

Roxy’s voice wavered with mock concern. "Eve?"

My breath hitched. No... no... my baby.

I staggered, clutching the table, panic rising.

"Help me," I whispered.

Roxy moved—slow, calculated. Her arms caught me as I collapsed.

"Oh, Eve," she murmured, her voice thick with worry. "Somebody, help! She’s losing consciousness!"

My vision swam. Just before the darkness swallowed me—

I saw it.

A grin.

*****

I woke to the sterile beeping of a heart monitor. Antiseptic filled my lungs. My hands flew to my stomach.

"My baby—"

"Eve."

Roxy sat beside me, mascara smudged as if she’d been crying for hours.

"You scared me." She reached for my hand. "The doctors said it was stress... exhaustion."

Lies.

I swallowed hard. "My baby?"

Her fingers tightened. "Still with you."

Lucky, she called me.

I forced a smile, biting down the storm inside me.

"You saved me," I whispered.

Roxy’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"I need to check on the restaurant," she sighed, glancing at her phone. "I’ll be back soon."

I nodded, weak.

She leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Rest while you can."

I should’ve felt safe.

Instead, unease curled through my chest.

*****

Two hours later—I think—I woke to emptiness.

A hollowness inside me.

Pain throbbed beneath my navel—a dull ache of ’absence.’

My hands flew to my stomach.

Flat. Cold.

No...

I clawed at the sheets, panic surging through me.

The hospital gown draped loosely over my frame, and beneath it, a stark bandage sat just below my navel.

No. No. No.

I tore at the bandage, desperate for proof that this was all in my head—that my body still carried the life I had sworn to protect.

"WHERE IS MY BABY?!"

A nurse rushed in, face pale.

"Miss, you need to calm—"

"Tell me!"

She faltered.

"Mrs. Delacroix—"

"Don’t fucking call me that!" I spat, my rage shaking me to my core.

A man in a white coat stepped in—the doctor. Clipboard in hand.

The nurse used the distraction to scurry off and out the door.

I turned sharply, my gaze locking onto a man in a white coat—mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, glasses perched on his nose.

He held a clipboard, his expression unreadable.

"Where..." My throat was raw, my voice barely a whisper. "Where is my baby?"

A pause. A heavy, suffocating pause.

The doctor’s fingers tightened around the clipboard. "Mrs. Delacroix, I—"

"Where is my baby?! Please, I’m not crazy!" My voice cracked, desperation turning my words into something ugly, feral.

The doctor swallowed, glancing at the door like he wanted to escape, just like the nurse had done.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

A horrible, gut-wrenching realization slammed into me.

My baby was gone.

A sharp sob tore from my chest. "No... no... you’re lying."

I tried to move, to get out of bed, but my body was weak. My hands shook as I clutched the bedsheets. "You’re lying—tell me you’re lying!"

The doctor exhaled, rubbing his temple. "There was a complication—"

"Bullshit." I wasn’t stupid. I had been fine. I had been careful. This wasn’t a ’complication.’

Someone had taken my child.

I turned my tear-filled gaze to the doctor, and for the first time, I noticed it—the slight twitch in his fingers. The nervous way he avoided my eyes.

He was lying.

"Who?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "Who did this?"

Silence.

Then—

"It was Mr. Delacroix."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

I stilled, my breath catching. My ears rang.

"...What?"

The doctor flinched at the look in my eyes. "Mr. Delacroix gave the order, the moment he heard you murmuring in your sleep about your child."

A sharp pain bloomed in my chest, something far worse than the physical pain ravaging my body.

Malcom.

He killed our child.

I let out a shaky breath, my mind whirling in a thousand directions, trying—desperately trying—to make sense of it.

Why?