Rising From The Deep: The Heiress's Wrath

Darkness encroached from the edges of her vision, swallowing the room, swallowing the pain. Her hand stayed clutched over her stomach, holding onto a life that was already slipping away. Ivy Hogan pushed open the heavy oak doors to the master suite, her fingers trembling against the smooth, cold wood. Inside her pocket, the plastic stick felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric of her dress. Two lines. Positive.

She took a breath, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of her heart. This was supposed to be the moment that changed everything. The moment that fixed the cracks in the foundation of her relationship with Braeden.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. The air was thick, suffocating. It smelled of expensive scotch and stale cigarette smoke-a scent that made her stomach turn violently.

"Braeden?" she called out, her voice barely a whisper.

She took a step forward, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. A shadow moved near the window. Braeden Randall stood there, a silhouette against the sliver of light bleeding through the drapes. He didn't turn around. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap.

"I have news," Ivy said, forcing a smile she didn't feel. She reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing the plastic test. "It's-"

"Shut up."

The words were low, venomous. Ivy froze.

Braeden turned slowly. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes. They were bloodshot, manic, filled with a hatred so pure it stole the breath from her lungs. He held a heavy manila envelope in his hand.

"Braeden, what's wrong?"

He didn't answer. He just threw the envelope.

It flew through the air, a blur of beige, and struck her square in the chest. The sharp edge of the paper sliced against her lower lip as it fell, a stinging, precise pain. Ivy flinched, her hand flying to her mouth. When she pulled it away, there was a smear of bright red blood on her fingertips.

Photos spilled from the envelope, scattering across the floor at her feet.

Ivy dropped to her knees, confusion clouding her vision. Her hands shook as she reached for the glossy prints.

They were grainy, taken from a distance, but the subjects were clear. A woman who looked exactly like her-same hair, same profile, same dress-walking into a seedy motel room. A man's arm was draped around her waist. A man who was definitely not Braeden.

"What is this?" Ivy's voice cracked. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Braeden, this isn't me."

"Don't lie to me!" Braeden roared. The sound shattered the silence of the room. He crossed the distance between them in two long strides.

He grabbed her jaw, his fingers digging into her skin with bruising force. He forced her head up, making her look at him. The smell of alcohol on his breath was overpowering.

"I have the logs, Ivy. I have the witnesses," he