Chapter 1 - THE RED HEEL
The pain in my abdomen was a silent, terrifying roar.
I was curled on the cold marble floor of my VIP private recovery suite, my hands locked like iron clamps around my seven-month pregnant belly. My fingers trembled against the soft cotton of my hospital gown as I pressed my forehead against the chilly floor, using every ounce of my willpower to keep from screaming.
Standing above me was Isabella Vance.
Her face was a mask of cold, unadulterated malice. She wore a tailored white silk suit, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders, and on her right foot was a blood-red designer heel—the sharp, narrow stiletto pressed ruthlessly against my side, pinning me to the stone floor.
"You should have signed the divorce papers when he asked, Khloe," Isabella whispered, her voice dropping into a venomous hiss that chilled me to the bone. "Did you really think a baby would save your place in the Mercer empire?"
"Please..." I gasped, my lungs burning as I fought for oxygen. "The baby... please, Isabella..."
"Your baby is an inconvenience," she sneered, leaning slightly more weight onto her right heel. "And inconveniences get removed."
CLICK.
The heavy brass handle of the private hospital room door turned. The door swung open violently, crashing against the rubber wall guard.
Marcus stepped into the room.
My husband. The CEO of Mercer Global, a man who commanded boardrooms with a single glance, stood frozen in the doorway. His dark eyes widened in absolute, horrifying shock as the scene unfolded before him: his pregnant, bedridden wife bleeding on the floor, and his senior vice president standing over her like an executioner.
“KHLOE!” Marcus roared.
Isabella’s face went instantly white.
She ripped her foot away from my ribs as if the red shoe had caught fire, stumbling two steps backward toward the IV stand. Marcus rushed forward like a tempest, dropping his leather briefcase onto the floor, his face pale with frantic dread.
I could barely breathe. The pain in my lower abdomen throbbed violently, but I forced my eyes to remain open.
Isabella recovered with terrifying speed. Within two seconds, her cruel smirk collapsed, her lip began to quiver, and she forced genuine, glistening tears into her eyes.
“SHE FELL—I WAS JUST TRYING TO HELP HER!” Isabella cried, her hands flying to her mouth, her voice pitching into a hysterical sob. "Marcus, I came in to bring her medical charts and she collapsed! I was trying to keep her from rolling onto her stomach!"
Marcus dropped to his knees beside me, his hands hovering over my body, terrified that touching me would cause more damage. He looked at my pale, sweaty face.
Then he looked down at the floor.
There, stamped against the white fabric of my hospital gown near my hip, was a distinct, semi-circular smudge of red polish and dirt—the exact imprint of Isabella’s stiletto heel.
Marcus slowly raised his head. He looked at the bottom of Isabella’s right shoe.
Then he looked straight into her eyes.
Isabella took a shaky step toward him, reaching out with a trembling hand to touch his shoulder. “Marcus, just listen to me—I swear I—”
SLAP!
The sound echoed through the sterile room like a gunshot.
Marcus struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand. The force of the strike spun Isabella around, sending her stumbling violently into the bedside tray table. Silver surgical bowls and plastic water cups crashed to the marble floor in a chaotic clatter.
“DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME!” Marcus thundered, his voice shaking the glass windows.
Isabella clutched her red, swelling cheek, stunned into absolute silence. Her chest heaved, her carefully crafted facade shattering into sharp, jagged pieces.
For a second, nobody moved. The only sound in the room was my labored, shallow breathing and the rhythmic beep of the fetal heart monitor across the bed.
Then, something changed in Isabella's expression.
The fake tears instantly disappeared, replaced by a sudden, paralyzing stillness. Her dark eyes slowly shifted away from Marcus, tracking upward toward the dark upper corner of the high ceiling.
All the color drained from her face, leaving her looking like a fresh corpse.
Right beside the ventilation shaft, buried inside the shadows of the crown molding, a tiny, pinpoint red light was blinking silently.
Blink.
Blink.
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A high-definition security camera had been mounted there the entire time.
Marcus hadn’t noticed it yet; his entire focus was on my pale face and my trembling hands. But Isabella had seen it. And judging by the sudden, suffocating terror spreading across her eyes, whatever that camera had captured over the last fifteen minutes was about to expose far more than just a pushed pregnant woman.
