So that “little princess” post wasn’t love—it was my death sentence.
So all his tenderness and care had been nothing but a façade.
So he had already been with Olivia—and she was carrying his child.
And I, along with the daughter in my womb, was nothing more than an obstacle to their happiness.
An obstacle to be “accidentally” erased at any moment.
I didn’t storm out, didn’t scream, didn’t let those two see my despair.
Instead, I quietly turned, step by step, into the empty stairwell.
My trembling fingers found a number buried in my contacts for three long years.
The call was quickly answered. A low, magnetic male voice came through.
“Hello.”
Just one word, yet it carried such authority and pressure that it caught me like a net before I could fall apart.
“Mr. Blake, this is Rachel Carter.”
“Three years ago, you said if I gave the word, you could destroy the Scott family.”
“Does that still hold?”
The other end was silent for several seconds—long enough for me to think he might refuse.
“It holds.” Ethan Blake’s voice was steady, filled with a quiet reassurance.
“I’ll give you an address. Meet me tomorrow.”