The silence of the hospital corridor was deafening, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside Avery Tate’s mind. Just a week ago, the scans showed nothing. Today, the ultrasound she clutched in her trembling hands told a different story: two gestational sacs. Twins. The doctor’s voice echoed in her head, distant and clinical. The probability was low, he had said. If she chose to terminate now, the chance of ever conceiving twins again was near zero. Avery let out a hollow, bitter laugh. This was the handiwork of the Fosters’ private doctors. When they had treated her like a laboratory vessel, implanting those fertilized eggs, they hadn't breathed a word about twins. To them, she wasn’t a human being; she was a high-end incubator, a tool to secure the Foster lineage. When she had bled the week prior, they had dismissed her, assuming the procedure was a failure. When Elliot regained consciousness and demanded a divorce, they vanished, leaving her behind like yesterday’s news. Now, the weight of two lives rested solely on her shoulders. Her phone vibrated violently in her bag, shattering her daze. She stood up, her legs feeling like lead, and answered as she walked toward the exit. "Avery, your father is dying! Come home—now!" Her mother’s voice was a jagged shard of grief. Avery froze. Jack Tate was dying? She knew his company’s collapse had sent him to the hospital, preventing him from even attending her wedding, but she never imagined the end was this close. Despite the scars of his infidelity and the rift between them, a cold, sharp pain pierced her heart. She hailed a cab, her mind a blurred kaleidoscope of regret and fear. *** The Tate residence was a scene of domestic ruin. Clutter was strewn everywhere, a physical manifestation of the family’s downfall. Laura led Avery into the master bedroom, where Jack Tate lay. He was a ghost of the man she remembered. His breathing was a shallow, rattling struggle; his eyes, once sharp, were now dim and unfocused. When he saw Avery, he exerted his final ounce of strength to reach for her. "Dad... why aren't you in the hospital?" Avery choked out, grabbing his ice-cold hand as tears blurred her vision. "Hospital? With what money?" Wanda’s voice cut through the grief like a serrated blade. Avery looked up to see her stepmother leaning against the doorframe, her expression masks of cold indifference. "The Fosters gave you a fortune for the marriage!" Avery cried out. "Why didn't you use it to save him?" Wanda sneered, her eyes flashing with venom. "That money went to the creditors, Avery! Do you have any idea how much debt your father racked up? Don't look at me like I stole it. Besides, the doctors said he was a lost cause. He’s better off dead." With a heartless flick of her wrist, Wanda turned and marched out of the room. Avery turned back to her father. She couldn't leave him. Not like this. "Don't listen to her, Dad. Please, just hang on..." But Jack wasn't looking at the world anymore. He was looking at his daughter, his eyes brimming with a lifetime of unspoken apologies. "Avery... my darling girl..." he whispered, his voice a mere thread of sound. "I failed you. I failed your mother. I’ll make it up to you... in the next life..." The hand in Avery’s grip suddenly went limp. The weight of it changed, becoming heavy and hollow. A scream tore from Avery’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that echoed through the empty halls of the house. In a single week, her world had been leveled. She was a wife to a man who hated her, a mother to children she didn't know how to protect, and now, a daughter without a father. *** The funeral was a somber, rain-soaked affair. The Tates had fallen from grace, and the "friends" who once crowded their ballroom were nowhere to be found. After the service, Wanda left for a hotel with the few remaining guests, leaving Avery and Laura alone in the cemetery. The gray sky wept a steady, rhythmic drizzle over the fresh earth. "Do you hate him, Mom?" Avery asked, her voice sounding small against the wind. Laura stared at the headstone, her face a mask of weary sorrow. "I do. Even in death, I cannot forgive what he did." "Then why are you crying?" Laura sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of decades. "Because I loved him. Relationships aren't simple, Avery. They aren't just black and white. Sometimes, love and hate are two sides of the same coin, burning you at both ends." *** That night, Avery returned to the Foster mansion. She was a hollowed-out version of herself, her clothes damp and her spirit broken. For three days, she had buried her father. For three days, the Fosters hadn't sent a single message. As she stepped into the courtyard, she saw the mansion ablaze with light. Music and the clink of crystal drifted through the air. A party. Mrs. Cooper hurried toward her. "Madam! You're back." The housekeeper’s smile faltered as she took in Avery’s pale, haunted face. "It's pouring outside. Come, get warm." Avery followed her inside, her black trench coat trailing rainwater on the polished floors. She felt like a specter haunting a feast. In the center of the living room, surrounded by smoke and expensive bourbon, sat Elliot Foster. He looked every bit the dark king back on his throne. But it wasn't just Elliot that caught her eye. Sitting dangerously close to him was a woman with cascading black hair and a white dress that clung to every curve. She held a cigarette with practiced elegance, her body pressed against Elliot’s in a way that screamed intimacy. The room went quiet as the guests turned to stare at Avery. They looked at her with blatant disrespect, as if she were a stray cat that had wandered into a gala. Avery didn't blink. She met Elliot’s gaze through the veil of smoke. His face was a mask of stone, unreadable and cold. The woman in white stood up, her heels clicking provocatively as she approached Avery. "So, you’re Avery Tate," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "Madam Rosalie has... interesting taste. You’re pretty enough, I suppose. Just a bit... small. And I don’t mean your age. I mean your presence." Avery’s eyes were dead as she replied, "You’re beautiful. You have the curves, the grace, everything I lack. So tell me—when is Elliot marrying you?" The woman’s face contorted with rage. She hadn't expected the "quiet" Tate daughter to have a tongue like a razor. "How dare you? Do you know who I am? I’ve been by Elliot’s side for years. Even if you hold the title of 'wife,' I could slap you across the face right now and he wouldn't even look up." The woman raised her hand, her eyes gleaming with malice. *CRACK.* The sound of shattering glass exploded through the room. In a blur of motion, Avery had grabbed a heavy bottle of expensive wine from the table and smashed it against the marble edge. Deep red liquid splattered across the white carpet like a fresh wound. Avery’s fingers tightened around the jagged neck of the broken bottle. Her eyes were bloodshot, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she pointed the glass shard at the woman’s throat. "You want to hit me?" Avery’s voice was a low, terrifying growl. "Try it. Touch me, and I swear to God, I’ll kill you." The room fell into a suffocating silence. The "introverted" Avery Tate was gone. In her place stood a woman pushed past her breaking point, a woman who had lost everything and had nothing left to fear. Elliot’s hawk-like eyes narrowed. He exhaled a long plume of smoke, his gaze fixed on Avery’s trembling, lethal form. For the first time, he didn't look at her with contempt. He looked at her with a dark, burgeoning curiosity.