MY BILLIONAIRE HUSBAND PLAYED POOR FOR FIVE YEARS—UNTIL HIS MOTHER SHOVED ME DOWN THE STAIRS TO KILL OUR UNBORN BABY!

“You’re stomping through the house again, Sophia. Honestly, you sound like an unhandled horse.”

Genevieve Blackwood’s voice sliced through the dining room with razor precision, cold enough to freeze the crystal chandeliers overhead.

I kept my chin down and gripped the back of a mahogany chair, my fingers turning white against the polished wood.

At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, carrying my first child felt like balancing a boulder on my pelvis.

Every single step sent lightning bolt spasms shooting down my lower spine.

My ankles were swollen to twice their natural size.

My breath caught in my throat with every slight shift in posture.

Yet in the eyes of my mother-in-law, my physical exhaustion was an unpardonable vulgarity.

“I apologize, Genevieve,” I murmured, my voice thick with unshed tears. “The pressure on my back is severe today.”

“Then stay in the servant wing where you belong,” she snapped, setting her silver coffee cup down onto its porcelain saucer without making a single sound.

“You have spent three years dragging down our reputation with your suburban cheapness.”

“My son settled for a stray dog because he has no ambition.”

“And now you waddle across my Italian marble like you own it.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

To Genevieve, I was never family.

I was the orphan girl Julian had met at an inner-city volunteer kitchen.

I was the graphic designer who drove a battered ten-year-old hatchback.

I was the penniless burden living off Julian’s modest trust fund while he stayed home, unemployed, writing unpublished market research reports at the kitchen table.

Suddenly, footsteps approached from the hallway.

Julian walked into the dining pavilion holding a tall glass of ice water and my daily prenatal vitamins.

He looked unbothered, wearing a faded navy henley and worn denim trousers.

To the world, Julian was a failure.

He was the Blackwood black sheep who had dropped out of the family firm, refused his birthright, and let his mother run the ancestral estate with an iron fist.

“Enough, Mother,” Julian said, his baritone steady, deep, and impossibly calm.

He didn't raise his voice. He never did.

He walked over to my side, slipped an arm gently behind my lower back, and offered me the glass.

“Drink this, sweetheart,” he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the side of my face.

I leaned into his warmth, drinking deeply, feeling the tremble in my knees subside under his solid presence.

“You spoil her, Julian,” Genevieve sneered, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “A common girl who cannot even climb stairs without sounding like a stampede.”

“Julian, you have disgraced your father's memory by choosing mediocrity.”

Julian ignored her entirely.

He reached up, pressed his lips softly against my temple, and gave me a reassuring smile that reached his eyes.

“Sophia, I have to step out for forty-five minutes to pick up the remaining nursery items from the downtown depository,” he said quietly.

“Pack your final overnight bag for the maternity ward.”

“When I return, we are leaving for St. Jude’s private suite early. No more delays.”

“Julian, please don’t leave me alone with her,” I whispered under my breath, panic gripping my chest.

He paused, studying my eyes with an intensity that always made my heart race.

“I will be back before you finish packing, my love. Nothing will touch you. I promise.”

He kissed my forehead once more, turned on his heel, and walked out the heavy oaken front doors.

The iron click of the lock sounded like the cocking of a gun.

The moment the front door sealed, the mansion dropped into an unbearable, suffocating silence.

Genevieve stood up.

Her tailored cream trousers and diamond-encrusted blazer framed her like an executioner in couture.

I didn't say another word.

I turned away and moved toward the grand central staircase, holding the balustrade with both hands.

Each step was agonizing.

A sharp, stabbing Braxton Hicks contraction seized across my abdomen halfway up.

I gasped, pausing on the twenty-second step, leaning my forehead against the cold brass railing.

Behind me, the sharp click-clack of Christian Louboutin heels began ascending the steps.

Fast.

Rhythmic.

Hunting.

“Do you really believe he loves you, Sophia?” Genevieve’s voice echoed directly behind my neck.

I spun around as quickly as my heavy belly allowed.

She was standing two steps above me, her eyes narrow, dead, and entirely devoid of humanity.

“Genevieve, step back,” I panted, fear electrifying my veins. “I am in pain.”

“You are an insect sucking the marrow out of my family’s heritage,” she whispered, her lips curling into a manic smirk.

“You think giving him a child binds him to you?”

“A boy born from street dirt will never inherit the Blackwood crown.”

Before I could scream, before my fingers could tighten around the rail, her manicured hands shot forward.

She slammed both palms violently into the center of my shoulder blades with savage, athletic force.

“Genevieve—NO!”

The world inverted.

My footing vanished into empty space.

The sickening sensation of gravity pulling me backward made my stomach drop into my throat.

Then came the impact.

Crack.

My ribs slammed against the hard edge of a marble riser.

Air exploded from my lungs in a bloody spray.

I bounced, spinning wildly down the staircase like a broken ragdoll.

My swollen abdomen struck the pointed corner of the landing step with terrifying force.

A blinding, white-hot agony tore through my pelvic bone.

Impact after impact.

White marble blurred into streaks of red.

I hit the ground floor foyer on my left side, my head bouncing hard against the stone with a dull, wet thud.

For five endless seconds, the world was pitch black and ringing.

When my vision returned, I looked down between my legs.

A river of thick, dark crimson was gushing across the brilliant white floor.

It pooled around my thighs, soaking through my maternity dress, staining the pristine grout lines.

My baby wasn’t kicking.

The vibrant flutter that had accompanied me for nine months had suddenly, entirely stopped.

“Help me...” I choked out, a bubble of blood bursting on my lips. “Julian... Julian, please... the baby...”

A pair of spotless nude patent leather heels entered my blurring peripheral vision.

Genevieve descended the final three stairs slowly, her hand gliding delicately along the mahogany banister.

She stopped inches from where my cheek lay pressed against the icy stone.

She didn't dial 911.

She didn't bend down to check my pulse.

She pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from her pocket, wiped a tiny, almost invisible speck of my blood from the toe of her designer shoe, and discarded the cloth onto my bleeding thigh.

Then she crouched down, bringing her lips beside my ear.

Her breath smelled of expensive peppermint and sulfurous rot.

“Lose the baby or lose your life,” she whispered into my ear, her voice smooth, calm, and terrifyingly clear.

“My son needs a billionaire’s daughter to cement the merger next quarter. Not an orphaned stray.”

“Do not bother surviving this, Sophia. Because even if you breathe through tonight, I will finish the job tomorrow.”

I tried to scratch her.