Chapter 113

Chapter 113


The message stared at Ivonne like a challenge.

Unknown Number: I hear you’ve been thrown to the wolves. Want to bite back?

Ivonne's thumb hovered above the screen. A chill slipped down her spine—not from fear, but familiarity.

She opened the message thread, and as she scrolled up, her heart dropped.

The number wasn’t unknown at all.

It was Martha.

Of course.

She should’ve guessed. That smug tone, the timing, the twisted sense of triumph.

Ivonne’s jaw tightened as she stared at the glowing screen.

Martha had waited for this. Had savored it.

In her silence, Ivonne could almost hear Martha’s voice in her head: “I warned you not to play with shadows you didn’t understand.”

She locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch beside her. The war might’ve seemed over to Martha, but Ivonne knew better.

This wasn’t the end. This was just an intermission.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Lincoln was pouring two glasses of wine. The storm had long since passed, leaving behind a haunting quiet that hung in the air like breath on glass.

He returned to the living room with the glasses and hesitated when he saw the tension in Ivonne’s face.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She took the wine but didn’t drink. “It was Martha.”

Lincoln stiffened. “What did she say?”

“She thinks she’s won.”

He sighed. “She’s always had a talent for premature celebration.”

Ivonne managed a tight smile. “She forgets how quickly I rebuild.”

Lincoln sat beside her, watching her carefully. “Ivonne... I know this isn’t the best time, but I need to say something.”

She turned, wary but listening.

“I’m sorry.”

Ivonne blinked. “For what?”

“For everything. For how I treated you. For how I made you feel like your dreams were wrong. I didn’t understand you back then, and I tried to change you instead of growing with you.”

She looked away.

“I still love you,” he continued. “And I know you’re hurting. But I want to be the one to help you heal. If you’d give me a second chance, I swear I’d do it right this time.”

His voice was soft. Sincerely, A little desperate.

Ivonne swallowed hard.

“I... I appreciate that,” she said gently. “I really do. But I’m not yours to fix.”

“Is it because of Tobias?”

She hesitated.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Lincoln closed his eyes, took a slow breath. “Even after what he did?”

“I don’t know why... but yes. It hurts. And maybe it shouldn’t. But I still love him.”

Lincoln nodded, his face unreadable. He rose without a word and walked back to the kitchen, leaving Ivonne alone with her thoughts and a wine glass she couldn’t bring herself to sip.



Tobias was nowhere near as composed.

The bar was dark, loud, and smoky. The kind of place where secrets were spilled as easily as whiskey, and everyone had a reason to forget.

He sat in a shadowy corner, nursing his third glass of bourbon.

It did nothing to dull the ache in his chest.

He missed her.

God, he missed her.

Her scent. Her laugh. The way her hand fit perfectly into his. The way she challenged him. The way she loved him—even if it had all been a lie.

He hated himself for still loving her.

The bartender slid over another drink without asking.

Tobias downed it and leaned back against the booth, running a hand through his hair.

“You look like hell,” someone said beside him.

He turned and found an unfamiliar woman leaning against the bar, clearly flirting.

Tobias looked her up and down once, then shook his head.

“Not interested.”

But she kept talking, kept smiling, kept trying to get close.

He eventually left his drink unfinished and stumbled into the night.



The front door slammed behind him as Tobias returned home well past midnight.

Drunk. Exhausted. Broken.

Martha was waiting, curled on the couch in a silk robe, a glass of wine untouched beside her.

“Tobias,” she said sweetly. “Rough night?”

He ignored her, shrugging off his jacket and heading for the stairs.

But Martha followed, stopping him halfway up.

“I know you're hurting,” she said softly, stepping closer. “And I hate seeing you like this.”

He turned, face tight. “What do you want, Martha?”

“You.”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t.”

She moved closer still, placing a hand on his chest. “You and I, we’ve always understood each other better than anyone else. We don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending,” he snapped. “I love her. Even if she lied. Even if she broke me.”

Martha flinched, the seductive edge vanishing from her expression.

“She’s gone, Tobias. You threw her out.”

“I know,” he growled. “And it’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

He shoved her hand off his chest and stormed up the stairs, leaving Martha alone in the hall, face flushed not with embarrassment—but rage.

A week passed.

Ivonne had moved into one of Lincoln’s guest rooms, keeping her distance as much as she could. He respected her space, though the sadness in his eyes never quite went away.

She spent most of her days by herself, trying to pick up the shattered fragments of her life.

And then one morning, everything changed.

She had felt dizzy. Queasy. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by overwhelming surges of nauseating discomfort.

At first, she blamed it on stress.

But when she fainted in the shower, Lincoln found her and insisted that they see a doctor.

Hours later, Ivonne sat in a stark white room, arms wrapped around herself, staring in disbelief at the physician across from her.

“You’re pregnant,” the doctor said again.

Ivonne’s voice was barely audible. “That’s not possible.”

The doctor tilted her head. “I know your medical history shows a hysterectomy. but I’ve double-checked the scans, the hormone levels. Ms. Darrow, you’re definitely pregnant.”

Ivonne clutched the edge of the table. Her heart thundered in her ears.

"No," she replied. "This does not make any sense."

"I suggest an ultrasound to confirm fetal growth."

Ivonne nodded dully. Her head was a whirlpool of confusion and denial.

She sat there in silence when the doctor had gone for what felt like eternity.

Pregnant?

But she did not have a womb.

It had been surgically excised years before. She recalled the agony. The tears. The broken hope. She recalled hospital room's chilly scent when the doctor informed her she'd never give birth.

And now.

She sat her hand across her belly, shuddering breath.

Had the scans made a mistake? Was this an evil trick?

Or something else?

Her thoughts flashed back during the last several weeks. There had been only one person with whom she'd shared sex.

Tobias.

But still, weeks ago—and still, no womb.

The door creaked open.

Lincoln entered, concern etched on his face. "You okay?"

Ivonne didn't respond.

She slowly got up, facing him, and panted softly, "Lincoln. I'm pregnant."

He hardened.

His eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"They confirmed. Positive. Strong heartbeat."

He blinked in shock. "But. how?"

"I don't know."

He moved closer, trying to do the math of the impossible.

"Are you sure it's Tobias's?"

Ivonne whirled about to the window, voice icy. "I haven't been with anyone else."

The words hung suspended between them, heavy and unlikely.

Lincoln did not respond. And Ivonne, for once in many years, felt something new.

Not loss. Not shame.

Power.

The impossible had occurred.

And someone—something—had done it.

Ivonne stood in front of a mirror one evening, her palm flat against her belly.

A baby. Her baby.

It was a desecration of every scientific rule.

And yet something within her knew that it was true.

And something even deeper breathed:

This is just the beginning.

At the mansion, Tobias stayed out in the garden before dawn, gazing at the fountain Ivonne adored. He had not shaved. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes reddened.

He didn't see Martha on the balcony, arms crossed.

He didn't see the raven that sat on the branch above, glaring at him with eyes flashing silver for an instant—then darkening again.

Something was happening to Ivonne, he was sure yet uncertain of it.