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I woke up in the hospital after my husband tried to k**l me in an explosion. The doctor said I was lucky--the shrapnel had missed my major arteries. Then he told me something else. I was eight weeks pr**nant. Just then, my husband, Julius, walked in. He ignored me and spoke to the doctor. He said his mi**ress, Kenzie, had leukemia and needed an urgent bone marrow transplant. He wanted me to be the donor. The doctor was aghast. "Mr. Carroll, your wife is pr**nant and critically injured. That procedure would require an ab**tion and could k**l her." Julius's face was a mask of stone. "The ab**tion is a given," he said. "Kenzie is the priority. Florence is strong, she can have another baby later." He was talking about our child like it was a tumor to be removed. He would k**l our baby and risk my life for a woman who was faking a terminal illness. In that sterile hospital room, the part of me that had loved him, the part that had forgiven him, turned to ash. They wheeled me into surgery. As the anesthetic flowed into my veins, I felt a strange sense of peace. This was the end, and the beginning. When I woke up, my baby was gone. With a calmness that scared even me, I picked up the phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in ten years. "Dad," I whispered. "I'm coming home." For a decade, I had hidden my true identity as a Horton heiress, all for a man who just tried to mu**er me. Florence Whitehead was dead. But the Horton heiress was just waking up, and she was going to burn their world to the ground. Chapter 1 The award ceremony was a blur of flashing lights and polite applause. I stood on the stage, the heavy gold medal in my hand feeling like a stone. Beside me, my husband, Julius Carroll, smiled his perfect, camera-ready smile. To the world, we were the golden couple of New York architecture, the co-founders of Carroll & Whitehead. He was the charismatic face, I was the quiet genius behind the designs. They called our life a masterpiece. They didn't see the crac
