That long, merciless tone was supposed to signal the end of Isabella Montgomery. At least, that’s what they believed as my body drifted into the cold, manufactured darkness of sedation. But even as the drug dragged me under, I was still a mother. And a mother hears everything.
No sob. No shattered cry from a husband who had just “lost” his wife after twelve brutal hours of labor. What reached my ears instead was a breath—slow, relieved.
“Finally,” whispered Nathaniel Pierce, the man I once trusted with my heart.
“It’s God’s will,” murmured his mother, Margaret Pierce, her voice syrupy with false piety. I could almost see her clutching her pearl rosary, already calculating what my death would mean for the Montgomery International Hotels empire.
And then there was Chloe Bennett—his assistant, his mistress. Her perfume drifted across my bed as she leaned close to him. “We did it,” she whispered. “It’s all yours now. Ours.”
Only one face in that room held truth: Dr. Andrew Collins. My father’s closest friend. He lowered his mask slowly. “Time of death: 9:47 p.m.,” he announced. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Pierce.”
Nathaniel didn’t even touch my forehead. He was already checking his phone.