Chapter 4Exposing My Husbands Blood Debt

Despite the nausea churning in my stomach, I put on the gown and walked into the gala on Jonathan's arm.

It was immediately obvious that Jonathan had micromanaged the decor. It wasn't just wealthy; it was deeply, intimately thoughtful. Every detail screamed of a man trying to impress a specific woman.

Vicky Kensington stood in the center of the room, greeting the billionaires and politicians with a champagne flute in hand.

And there, resting against her collarbones, was the Everlasting diamond.

When she saw me, a vicious, triumphant smile spread across her perfect lips.

“Natalie. I’m honestly shocked you had the guts to show your face,” she purred as we crossed paths. “I figured after our little bumper-car incident, you’d be cowering in a hospital bed for the rest of your life.”

It was true. For years, the mere thought of Vicky induced panic attacks. Back then, the power dynamic was entirely in her favor. She used to torment me with a casual cruelty—slapping me across the face, organizing social blackouts to ruin my career, treating me like dirt on her shoe.

The only reason I survived those years was because Jonathan stood as my shield.

But now, my shield was standing beside my tormentor.

All I could do was try to keep my head above water, to avoid getting sucked into the undertow of their toxic current.

But Vicky wasn't going to let me walk away.

The moment Jonathan stepped away to speak with a senator, she grabbed my wrist, her manicured nails digging into my skin.

“Do you actually think wearing his ring gives you any power over me?” she hissed, her eyes gleaming. “Let me make this crystal clear for you, Natalie. I am the only woman he has ever truly loved.”

To prove her point, she pulled out her phone and opened a hidden photo album.

“Look at this. March of last year. The anniversary of your little bastard’s death. Jonathan told you he had an emergency board meeting, right? He was actually in Aspen, celebrating my birthday.”

She swiped to the next photo.

“June of this year. Mercer Holdings goes public. He told you he was in Tokyo securing investors. He was in Paris with me, shopping for couture.”

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

“Every gift he bought me. Every secret getaway. We’ve been together for eight years, Natalie. Eight years. Everyone in his inner circle knows. The VPs, the board members, the assistants. They’ve all been laughing at you behind your back.”

She leaned in, her perfume cloying and suffocating.

“You thought you had this beautiful, happy life. You’re nothing but a pathetic joke.”

Her words hit like shrapnel.

My hands shook as I took the phone from her.

I stared at the glossy, curated evidence of a parallel life.

There was Jonathan, laughing on a yacht. Jonathan, kissing Vicky’s cheek in front of the Eiffel Tower. Jonathan, looking at her with a light in his eyes I hadn't seen since we were twenty-two.

What was I doing while these photos were taken?

I was sitting on the floor of a nursery that never got used, sobbing into baby blankets that still smelled like dust. I was drowning in guilt for trading my son’s life for Jonathan's success.

The tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable.

It wasn't just the betrayal. It was the total, agonizing collapse of the reality I had lived in for nearly a decade.

Vicky watched me cry, drinking in my devastation like fine wine.

She leaned closer, twisting the knife.

“Do you want to know why he finally brought me back to the States?” she whispered.

“Because I’m pregnant.”

She patted her flat stomach. “He already drafted a new will. He’s leaving the lion’s share of his estate to my child. You broke your back for that man for half your life, and for what? I still win.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I forced myself to look her dead in the eye, my voice trembling but clear.

“So... you admit it. You admit that you purposefully pushed me down those stairs to kill my baby, just so you could have Jonathan?”

Vicky laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “So what if I did? The statute of limitations for the assault is over, and you signed an NDA. You can’t touch me. Jonathan will never let you near me. With him protecting me, you will die a miserable, defeated woman.”

Right as the words left her mouth, the main spotlights of the ballroom swung toward the stage.

I took a deep breath, reaching up to the brooch pinned to my dress. I unclipped the hidden microphone I had been wearing all night.

I looked at Vicky, my face stripped of all emotion.

“You’re right. Legally, I can’t touch you,” I said softly.

“But I can make sure that every single person in this room—and the two million people currently watching this live broadcast—know exactly what kind of monster you are.”