Chapter 3 Betrayer's Lullaby

# Chapter 3: Betrayer's Lullaby

The message on the mirror haunted me for days. Each night, I examined everything I ate, though it hardly mattered—refusing food only resulted in IV nutrition administered while I slept. Meanwhile, my "pregnancy" progressed with textbook symptoms: morning sickness, fatigue, sensitivity to smells. Too textbook, perhaps.

Two weeks into my captivity, I discovered the one blind spot in Rose Manor's security—Victor's personal study. It was locked during the day, but at night, between midnight and 2 AM, he would retreat there alone, dismissing even his most trusted guards.

I feigned sleep until the mansion quieted, then slipped from my room using the keycard I'd stolen from a distracted maid. The hallways were dimly lit, security cameras pivoted on their programmed rotations. I counted seconds, timing my movements between their sweeps.

The study door was slightly ajar, a thin line of light spilling onto the carpet. From inside came the soft, haunting notes of a melody—the same lullaby I'd heard several times since arriving. I peered through the crack.

Victor sat at a grand piano, his back to the door, fingers moving gracefully across the keys. The music was achingly beautiful, filled with longing and grief. On the piano sat a small photograph, propped up as if he were playing for its subject.

He stopped suddenly, his shoulders tensing. "You can come in, Antonia, rather than lurking in doorways."

My heart stuttered. I pushed the door open, prepared for anger, but found only weariness in his expression.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Your perfume." His fingers rested on the keys. "Jasmine and sandalwood. Distinctive."

I approached cautiously, eyes drawn to the photograph—a baby with wispy blonde hair and bright blue eyes, nothing like Victor's raven coloring.

"Your child?" I asked.

His jaw tightened. "My son. He lived six months, three weeks, four days."

Something in his voice—raw, unguarded—made me forget momentarily who he was, what he'd done.

"The curse," I whispered.

"Always at six months." He closed the piano lid gently. "No matter the precautions, the medical interventions."

"And his mother?"

"Couldn't bear the loss. She's in Switzerland now. A very comfortable facility with ocean views and round-the-clock care."

I studied the photograph more closely. "He has blonde hair. But you—"

"Have my father's coloring, yes." Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you implying?"

Before I could answer, the study door burst open. Guards rushed in, restraining a struggling man whose expensive suit was torn and bloodied.

"Found him scaling the east wall, sir," reported the security chief.

The intruder looked up, blood dripping from a cut above his eye. He was strikingly handsome in a rugged way—golden-haired and green-eyed, his smile defiant despite his circumstances.

"Evening, Victor," he drawled. "Lovely home you've made for yourself with daddy's blood money."

"Dario." Victor's voice was ice. "Always the dramatic entrance."

My blood ran cold. This was the man who had sent the severed finger.

Victor turned to me. "Antonia, return to your room."

"No," Dario interjected, his gaze shifting to me. "Let her stay. She deserves to know what kind of monster she's breeding for."

Victor nodded to his guards, who tightened their grip on Dario. "Search him."

They produced a small USB drive and a folded paper from Dario's pockets. Victor examined both, his expression darkening at whatever he saw on the paper.

"Leave us," he ordered his men. "But stay within calling distance."

When we were alone, Victor unfolded the paper—a laboratory report—and slid it across his desk to me.

"Go ahead," Dario urged me. "See what your captor doesn't want you to know."

The report was a genetic analysis, comparing two DNA samples. My hands trembled as I read the conclusion: 99.7% probability of paternity.

"What is this?" I whispered.

Dario's smile was triumphant. "You're carrying my child, not his. Must be quite the blow to the mighty Cosimo ego."

Memories flooded back—a medical conference six months ago. A charming man with green eyes buying me drinks after my presentation. A hotel room. And then... haziness. Had I really been so careless?

"Impossible," I said. "We used protection."

"Did we?" Dario raised an eyebrow. "After the second bottle of wine? The one with the peculiar almond aftertaste?"

Victor moved so quickly I barely saw it—one moment standing beside me, the next with his hands around Dario's throat.

"You drugged her," he snarled. "Planned this."

Dario choked out a laugh despite Victor's grip. "Like you're one to talk about consent."

Victor released him, turning to me with dangerous calm. "You switched my samples. Used his sperm instead of mine."

"No!" I backed away. "I didn't—I wouldn't even know how."

"Don't play innocent," Victor hissed, advancing on me. "Seraphina helped you, didn't she? My own doctor, conspiring against me."

His fingers closed around my throat, not squeezing but threatening. "I offered you protection, comfort, wealth. And you betrayed me with him?"

"Victor," Dario coughed, straightening. "She's telling the truth. This was my plan, not hers. I've been working against you for months."

Victor's grip loosened slightly. "Why?"

"Because a Cosimo-Blackwood child would be too powerful," Dario said. "Her brother's genetic anomalies combined with your bloodline? The old families would never allow it."

I felt dizzy, struggling to understand. "My brother? What does Jamie have to do with this?"

The mansion's alarm suddenly blared. Red emergency lights bathed the study.

"Sir!" A guard burst in. "The perimeter's been breached. It's the Church."

Through the windows, I saw black vehicles surrounding the estate. Women in modified nun's habits emerged, armed with what looked like military-grade weapons.

Seraphina stepped from the lead vehicle, removing her doctor's coat to reveal religious garb underneath. She raised a bullhorn:

"Victor Cosimo! By authority of the Sacred Embryo Act, we are here for the unborn child. Surrender the vessel peacefully."

Victor's expression was murderous. "Get Antonia to the panic room," he ordered his security chief.

"No!" I pulled away. "I'm not going anywhere until someone explains what's happening!"

Seraphina entered the mansion unchallenged, the guards parting before her as if afraid. When she reached the study, her eyes locked with Victor's.

"You should have let me keep our son," she said, voice trembling with rage. "This is divine retribution."

She turned to me. "The child you carry is sacred property under the law. It will be raised in our sanctuary, safe from corruption."

"Your son?" I looked between her and Victor. "You were together?"

Seraphina's bitter laugh cut through the room. "Together? I was what you are now—a vessel. Only I was foolish enough to love him."

She pulled aside her robe, revealing a jagged scar across her abdomen. "This is what happens when a Cosimo child reaches six months. Emergency extraction, always too late. And then they discard you."

The room seemed to spin around me. I pressed my hands to my stomach, feeling suddenly, violently protective of the life I'd been resenting.

"You can't have my baby," I said, surprising myself.

Victor moved to my side, his hand finding mine. "For once, we agree."

Dario, forgotten in the chaos, suddenly laughed. "Oh, this is rich. The great Victor Cosimo, the Church puppet, and the reluctant mother—all fighting over my seed."

A sharp contraction doubled me over. Pain radiated through my abdomen, hot and insistent.

"Something's wrong," I gasped.

Victor caught me as my knees buckled. "Get the doctor!" he barked, but not to Seraphina—to his men.

As they carried me to the medical suite, Seraphina followed, her expression torn between professional concern and zealous determination.

"She's miscarrying," she announced after a quick examination. "Just as well. That child was an abomination."

"Save it," Victor demanded, gripping her arm with bruising force.

"Only the Church can—"

Victor pulled out his gun. "Save. My. Child."

They hooked me to monitors, administered medications. Through waves of pain, I heard the rapid whoosh of a heartbeat on the ultrasound. Then, impossibly, a second rhythm joined it, slightly out of sync with the first.

"Twins," Seraphina whispered, her face pale. "God help us all."

Victor stared at the monitor, something like wonder breaking through his controlled facade.

Dario, who had somehow followed us, laughed bitterly from the doorway. "Congratulations, Victor. One of each. Mine and yours."

The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was Victor's gun swinging toward my belly, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—and Seraphina's hand stopping his arm as the double heartbeat filled the room.