"That's not possible," she whispered. Her voice sounded thick, foreign to her own ears. "I'm on the pill. And with my weight... you said it was unlikely."
"Unlikely is not impossible," the doctor said, finally looking up. His eyes held no sympathy, only clinical detachment. "However, given your current BMI and the experimental hormone treatments you were subjected to as a child, your heart is already under immense strain. Carrying this pregnancy to term..." He paused, closing the folder with a finality that sounded like a gunshot. "It will likely kill you."
Katarina placed a hand on her stomach. It felt soft, yielding, and terrified. "So, I need... I need to terminate."
"It is too late for a standard procedure given the cardiac risks," Dr. Evans said. "Surgery would stop your heart before we even began. You are in a deadlock, Katarina. You keep it, you risk death. You try to remove it, you risk death."
She walked out of the clinic into the gray drizzle of the city. She caught her reflection in a shop window. A woman of two hundred pounds stared back. Her skin was dull, her eyes buried in puffiness. She looked like a mistake.
Her phone buzzed against her palm. It was Francis. Her father.
She answered, desperate for a voice, for anyone. "Dad, I-"
"The lawyers have drafted the papers," Francis's voice cut through the rain, sharp and clean. "You are no longer an Acosta. Your trust fund is frozen until you can prove you are mentally stable and physically fit. Which, looking at you, will be never."
"Dad, I'm pregnant," she choked out. "I'm sick. I might die."
There was a silence on the other end. A long, cold silence.
"Then do it quietly," Francis said. "Don't embarrass Candi. Her debutante ball is coming up."
The line went dead.
Katarina stood on the sidewalk. The rain soaked through her oversized sweater, plastering it to her skin. She felt heavy. Not just her body, but her soul. She looked down at her stomach again.
"Okay," she whispered to the rain. "Okay."
Her eyes shifted. The dullness evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard glint. If she was going to die, she would die fighting. And if she lived...
God help them all.
Five Years Later.
The automated doors of JFK International Airport slid open.
A pair of red-soled stilettos struck the polished marble floor. Click. Click. Click.
The sound was rhythmic, precise, and demanding of attention. Heads turned. It wasn't just the shoes. It was the woman wearing them.
She wore a blood-red trench coat belted tightly at the waist, emphasizing a silhouette that looked like it had been carved from marble. Her legs were long, toned, and moved with a predator's grace. She wore oversized black sunglasses that covered half her face, but her lips were painted a matte crimson that matched her coat.
Katarina Acosta adjusted her sunglasses. She didn't look at the travelers gaping at her. She looked through them.
"Mommy," a small voice piped up from beside her.
Kaylee sat perched atop a Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase, her legs swinging. She wore a denim jacket covered in patches and oversized headphones around her neck. She pulled a lollipop out of her mouth. "It smells like greed."
Katarina smirked. She reached down and smoothed her daughter's hair. "That's just New York, baby. It's an acquired taste."
Her phone vibrated. It was a secure line.
"Talk to me," Katarina said.
"They're moving on the trust," Solo's voice came through, distorted slightly by the encryption. "Francis is hosting a gala tomorrow night for Candi's birthday. They plan to announce the acquisition of your mother's shares in DreamLeaf Pharma. They think you're dead, or at least dead to the world."
Katarina's grip on the phone tightened. Her manicured nails tapped against the screen. "Is Auston on the guest list?"
"Front and center," Solo said. "He's looking for a new wife. Someone with a dowry."
"Perfect," Katarina said.
She hung up as a black SUV pulled up to the curb. The driver scrambled out to take their bags. He paused when he looked at her, his eyes widening. He stumbled over his own feet.
Katarina ignored him and slid into the backseat. As the car merged onto the highway toward Manhattan, she watched the skyline approach. Five years ago, she had left this city in the back of a Greyhound bus, weeping into a bag of chips.
Now, she owned the skyline. Or she would, soon enough.
"Are you okay?" Kaylee asked, her small hand finding Katarina's.
"I'm fine," Katarina said, squeezing back. "Just remembering."
The car pulled up to the St. Regis. The doorman opened the door with a flourish. Katarina stepped out, the city air hitting her face. She walked to the front desk. She didn't use her old name. That name was mud, and using it would trigger alerts on Francis's dashboard before she even unpacked.
She slid a heavy, matte black card across the marble counter. It wasn't a standard Centurion; the chip was embedded in a way that scrambled the reader's merchant logs, displaying only a verified routing number.
"The reservation is under Vane," she said smoothly, using her mother's maiden name. "Presidential Suite."
The receptionist picked up the card, his eyebrows shooting up as he felt its weight. He ran it, and the system gave an immediate, high-priority clearance code.
"Of course, Ms. Vane. Welcome. We have prepared everything as requested."
Katarina took Kaylee's hand and headed for the elevators. The lobby was busy, filled with the hum of expensive conversations.
She pressed the button. The doors began to slide shut.
Through the narrowing gap, she saw a man walking past the corridor. He was tall, wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than most people's cars. He was flanked by two large security guards.
Katarina's heart gave a single, violent thud against her ribs.
She didn't see his face, only the broad set of his shoulders and the way the air seemed to move out of his way.
The doors clicked shut.
Katarina let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She shook her head. It couldn't be him. He didn't come to hotels like this. He lived in a fortress of glass and steel on the other side of town.
They entered the suite. It was lavish, filled with fresh flowers and crystal chandeliers. Katarina kicked off her heels and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Central Park.
"Mommy, are we hunting tonight?" Kaylee asked, opening her laptop on the velvet sofa.
Katarina walked to the closet. She pulled out a black dress. It was simple, backless, and dangerous.
She walked to the mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger to the girl who left five years ago. The fat was gone, replaced by lean muscle earned through sweat and blood in training camps that broke grown men. Her face was angular, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
She applied a fresh coat of lipstick. It looked like war paint.
Her phone buzzed again. A text from Francis's secretary, a generic blast to an old number she kept active just for this. Please ensure all documents are signed regarding the forfeiture of assets.
Katarina laughed. It was a low, dark sound.
"Tell Francis to wash his neck," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm home."
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