Locked in the Glass Sunroom

At eight months pregnant, I was locked inside the sweltering glass sunroom of my own estate.

My husband's "sweet" adopted sister, Sophie, stood in the cool air on the other side, sipping ice water as she watched the midday sun bake me alive.

When I shattered the glass to escape, my husband—a ruthless syndicate boss—finally returned.

Sophie immediately dropped to the floor, faking tears and claiming I had gone mad and attacked her.

Without a word of concern for my bleeding feet or my frantic pleas for a doctor, Dominic dragged me down to a windowless basement cell.

"She needs to sweat this fever out of her."

He turned the heat up to a scorching roar and locked the heavy iron door.

In that dark, roasting oven, I cramped and bled out on the concrete floor. I lost my baby, and my body was so traumatized I could never carry a child again.

Lying in a pool of my own blood, the truth finally pierced through my blind gratitude.

Dominic had staged the accident that brought us together just to infiltrate my family. He never loved me; he only wanted to steal my empire and replace me with his mistress once he thought my protective older brother was dead.

With the last of my strength, I dipped my fingers into my blood and wrote "Vengeance" on the steel wall.

Just then, an explosion shook the foundation, and the door was blown off its hinges. My brother, very much alive, stepped through the smoke.