Satisfied, Leonard released my chin and leaned in to press a cold kiss to my forehead. "Good girl. Go on. Mr. Walters is waiting." I turned and walked back toward the ballroom, each step in my high heels feeling like I was walking on broken glass. John, a portly, lecherous man known for his wandering hands, lifted a glass, his eyes gleaming as I approached. Leonard followed right behind me, personally delivering me to the wolf. "Mr. Walters, Ava is all yours for the evening. Make sure she keeps you entertained." John laughed, his sweaty hand immediately snaking around my waist. "Don't you worry, Mr. Shaw! Consider that Southside land a done deal!" He handed me a flute of champagne. Under Leonard's intent gaze, I clinked and downed it. Leonard's eyes burned into me with a clear command. "Please him. For me." I flashed a seductive smile and downed the champagne in one go. The moment the liquid hit my tongue, I immediately felt something was off. I tasted a faint bitterness. Leonard had spiked my drink. That realization was the final cut, severing the last thread of my foolish attachment. I purred to John. "I'm just going to grab another." Before he could react, I spun on my heel and headed straight for the ladies' room. Inside a stall, I shoved my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to throw up. Then, shaking, I pulled out my phone and sent two texts. The first was to my father: [Dad, I'm in. Start the plan.] The second was to my private doctor: [Abortion scheduled for 9 a.m. tomorrow. Absolute discretion.] After everything, I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror, gently caressing my still-flat belly. "I'm so sorry, my loves," I whispered, the tears finally falling. "You deserve so much better than a father like him." The next morning, while Leonard sat in his office waiting for a report on how I had "pleased" John, I was on an operating table, ending the existence of the only children he would ever have. After the procedure, I took a picture of the medical discharge papers. I sent it to Leonard without any explanation. Three seconds later, my phone began to ring, his name flashing on the screen. I powered it down, popped out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and dropped it into the hospital trash. The moment the screen went black, it felt like I had personally snuffed out the last three years of my life. Tears were for the woman I used to be. The woman who walked out of that hospital didn't look back. I stepped out of the hospital into the bright autumn sun, but its light offered no warmth. A dull ache in my belly was a constant reminder of what I had just lost and what I had to cut away. The taxi stopped before the familiar, ornate iron gates of Quinn Manor. Our butler, Jack Foster, was already waiting. His eyes, usually so composed, reddened the moment he saw me. "Ms. Quinn..." I rasped, forcing a thin smile. "I'm home, Jack." My father, Richard Quinn, stood at the entrance to the main house. He stood as tall and imposing as ever, but I could see the unconcealed pain and fury etched around his eyes. He didn't ask a single question. He just strode forward and pulled me into a fierce hug. "I'm just glad you're back," he said in a low voice, his hand patting my back in the same soothing way he did when I was a little girl with a scraped knee. In that safe embrace, the fortress of composure I had built around myself crumbled into dust. I buried my face in the expensive wool of his suit, my shoulders beginning to shake uncontrollably. It wasn't a sob but a physical response to overwhelming suppression. "H-He doesn't even know," I mumbled into his jacket. "With his condition, those babies were a miracle..." My voice was muffled. "And what if he did know?" Richard snapped with suppressed fury, though his touch remained gentle. "He doesn't deserve a child with your blood. He's not worthy of you. Good things don't happen to bad people." Ice-cold hatred instantly replaced all my sorrow and weakness. "Dad," I said, pulling back and wiping my eyes. My gaze was now steel. "The plan is a go. I want him ruined. I want him left with absolutely nothing." Richard studied my face. For a moment, I saw a flicker of sorrow for the daughter he had lost, but it was quickly replaced by resolute pride. "Good. I've already made the arrangements with Maggie." Maggie Goodman was the daughter of our housekeeper, Jane Brown. Two years older than me, Maggie was a plain, plump woman whose ordinary appearance belied a deep-seated vanity and greed that were a perfect mirror of her mother's. On the rare occasions I had come home during my "undercover" years, she had always made snide remarks behind my back, mocking the "heiress" who lived a life less glamorous than her own. She was the perfect person to play my stand-in. Maggie arrived that afternoon. Unable to hide her excitement and greed, she wore a gaudy, ill-fitting designer dress, the logo screaming for attention. "Ava... I mean, Ms. Quinn," she stammered, rubbing her hands together, trying to look poised but landing somewhere between awkward and ridiculous. "Your father told me everything. Don't you worry. I'll be the perfect heiress!" I sat on the sofa, slowly sipping my coffee, and said nothing. She blathered on, her tone dripping a mix of sycophantic praise and thinly veiled gloating. "Mr. Shaw? From ShawTech Solutions? I saw him from a distance once when he visited your dad. So handsome and successful! I can't believe he's about to be my fiancé." I glanced up with cold dismissal. "Remember your place, Maggie. You're an actress in a play. When the curtain falls, you will be paid handsomely for your performance. But do not think you are entitled to anything that is not in the script." Her face froze, resentment flashing before being replaced by fawning. "Yes, Ms. Quinn. I know my place." I set my cup down and walked toward the study without another glance. She was just a pawn, so I wouldn't waste my breath on her. As planned, Richard "casually" let it slip to Leonard that the mysterious Quinn heiress was finally ready to meet him on two conditions: it had to be discreet, and her identity had to be kept under wraps to avoid a media circus. As expected, Leonard jumped at the chance.