HE THREW HIS PREGNANT WIFE INTO THE RAIN TEN YEARS AGO—TODAY, SHE MARCHED INTO HIS FATHER’S FUNERAL IN FULL DRESS BLUES WITH FIVE HEIRS HE NEVER KNEW EXISTED!

Ten years earlier, the rain had not been a gentle mist; it had been a torrential Southern hurricane that tore shingles from the slate roof of Whitmore Manor.

I was twenty-two years old, three months into a fragile, terrifying pregnancy that I hadn’t yet dared to announce, and still clutching the fairy tale that a girl from the marshlands could truly be loved by the heir to a maritime fortune. We had been married for fourteen months. Fourteen months of living in the cavernous, drafty halls of Grant’s family estate, where every maid seemed to report my movements to Grant’s mother and every high-society gala felt like an execution awaiting an axe.

Then came the night of the Founders' Gala.

I had stayed home with violent morning sickness, curled on the bathroom floor of the master suite, clutching a cold washcloth to my forehead. At midnight, the double doors of our bedroom were kicked open so hard the gilded frame splintered.

Grant stood in the threshold, drenched in rain, smelling of expensive scotch and raw rage. His tie was undone, his collar torn. Behind him, standing in the shadows of the hallway like a triumphant phantom, was Victoria Hale—her eyes wide with faux sympathy, clutching a leather dossier to her chest.

“Get up,” Grant had rasped, his voice vibrating with an ugly, terrifying venom I had never heard from him before.

“Grant? What’s wrong? What happened?” I had scrambled up from the marble floor, trembling, my hand instinctively pressing against my lower abdomen.

He threw the dossier across the room. Glossy eight-by-ten photographs scattered across the Persian rug like playing cards.

I looked down. My stomach plummeted through the floorboards.

The photographs showed me—or a woman with my exact hair, my exact build, wearing my favorite trench coat—walking into a seedy motel on the outskirts of Savannah with Julian Vance, Grant’s bitterest business rival and sworn enemy. Another photo showed the woman’s back pressed against a motel window, a man’s hands tangled in her hair. Another showed bank transfer slips totaling two hundred thousand dollars, wired from Julian Vance’s offshore accounts into a checking account opened under my maiden name.

“Grant… this isn’t me,” I breathed, tears instantly blinding my vision. “I’ve been sick in bed for four days! You know this! I’ve never spoken to Julian Vance in my life!”

“Don’t lie to me!” he roared, crossing the room in three strides. He grabbed my wrist, twisting it until I gasped in pain. “The security guard at the marina saw you take the boat. The hotel clerk verified your driver’s license! The account was opened with your Social Security number!”

“Grant, please, look at the pictures! Look at her face! It’s blurry, it’s not—”

“He offered you two hundred grand to sell our shipping manifests, and you threw your legs open to sweeten the deal!” He shoved me backward, his eyes wild with the madness of wounded pride. “Victoria warned me about you. She told me a gutter girl from the docks could never change her stripes. She spent three weeks tracking your little rendezvous!”

Victoria stepped into the room, touching his shoulder with rehearsed delicacy. “Grant, darling, calm down. Don't touch her. She isn't worth the scandal. Let the lawyers handle it quietly. We have everything we need.”

I looked at Victoria. And in that fraction of a second, as her gaze met mine over Grant’s shoulder, the mask dropped. A cold, victorious smirk curved the corners of her lips. She had done this. It was a surgical strike. She had orchestrated the photos, forged the signatures, bought the hotel clerk, and set the trap.

“Grant, I am pregnant,” I whispered, dropping to my knees. It was the only weapon I had left. The only truth that mattered. “Look at me. I am carrying your baby. Please. Call the doctor. Check the house cameras. Grant, please!”

He looked down at me, and his expression turned to utter disgust.

“My baby?” he laughed, a sound so hollow and cruel it froze the blood in my veins. “Or Julian Vance’s bastard? How long have you been laughing at me behind my back? You’ve got ten minutes to pack whatever you brought into this house before I have the guards drag you to the front gate.”

“Grant, no! Harrison! Where is your father? Let me speak to Harrison!”

“My father is in London for heart surgery, Savannah. He isn't here to save you. And when he comes back, he’ll see you for the parasite you are.”

Ten minutes later, the iron gates of Whitmore Manor slammed shut behind me.

My meager belongings were tossed onto the curb in a black garbage bag. The sky opened up, dumping sheets of freezing water over my soaked pajamas. I stood in the mud, barefoot, bleeding from a scrape on my knee where the guard had shoved me past the threshold, clutching my stomach with both hands.

Inside the sprawling estate, the warm amber lights glowed against the dark sky. Through the high front windows, I saw Victoria Hale standing beside Grant, handing him a glass of amber liquid, her hand resting firmly on the small of his back.

The rain washed my tears into the mud.

In that dark, hopeless night, something broke inside me. The soft, terrified girl who wanted to be loved by a prince died in the dirt outside those iron gates.

I looked at the house one last time, my fingernails digging into my palms until blood mixed with the rain.