Chapter 3

"Hannah!"

The voice sliced through the haze in my mind. It was a voice I hadn't heard in months.

Brandon Cross.

Billionaire tycoon. My late grandfather’s most ruthless protégé. The man who had taken the reigns of the Kensington Empire's shadow operations while I played house in a tiny apartment.

Brandon had always been a fixture in my life—a silent, imposing guardian who had secretly loved me for years, yet respected my foolish desire to live a "normal" life with Jules.

I forced my heavy eyelids open just a fraction.

Brandon dropped to his knees beside me.

"Hannah, God, no," he choked out, his large, warm hands hovering over my ruined wedding dress, afraid to touch me, afraid to break me further.

"Brandon..." I breathed, the word nothing more than a bloody bubble on my lips. "My baby..."

"I've got you. I've got you, I swear to God," he vowed.

Paramedics rushed through the doors behind him, pushing a gurney. "Sir, step back! We need to board her—"

"Get out of my way!" Brandon roared, a sound so feral the paramedics instantly froze.

He slid his arms under my shoulders and knees, lifting me from the freezing marble with effortless strength.

I groaned as the movement jostled my torn abdomen, and I buried my face into the crook of his neck.

"Forget the ambulance," Brandon barked at the medics as he carried me down the aisle. "Have my pilot spin up the chopper on the roof. We are going to Kensington Memorial. Now!"

That was the last thing I heard before the darkness finally pulled me under.

When I opened my eyes again, there was no cold marble. Only the sterile smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor, and the softest cotton sheets against my skin.

I was in the ultra-exclusive VIP wing of Kensington Memorial Hospital.

I turned my head slowly.

Sitting in a chair beside my bed was Brandon. He looked terrible. His tie was gone, his shirt was wrinkled, and a dark shadow of stubble covered his jaw.

He looked like he hadn't slept a single second since he carried me out of that church.

When he saw my eyes open, he exhaled a shaky breath and leaned forward, gently taking my hand in his.

"You're awake," he whispered, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

Before I could speak, the heavy mahogany door opened, and a doctor in a pristine white coat walked in.

"Miss Kensington," the doctor said softly, approaching the bed. "It is a miracle you are alive. The blood loss was catastrophic."

"My child," I said.

The doctor lowered his eyes. "I am so incredibly sorry. The trauma from the fall... the placental abruption was too severe. We couldn't save the pregnancy. And... due to the extensive internal damage, it is highly unlikely you will ever be able to conceive again."

Silence descended on the room. It was heavier than the silence in the empty church.

Brandon’s grip on my hand tightened. I could feel the violent tremor in his fingers.

I looked at him and saw pure, unadulterated murder in his eyes.

I waited for the tears. I waited for the hysterical sobs that had torn through my throat on the altar. But they never came.

The last of my tears had been left in that puddle of blood. The naive, hopeful girl who just wanted a simple life and a loving husband had died on those marble steps. In her place, something else had taken root. Something forged in betrayal and baptized in my own blood.

My heart didn't just break. It turned completely to ice.

"Thank you, Doctor," I said, my voice as smooth and cold as glass. "Leave us."

The doctor nodded nervously and hurried out of the room.

A moment later, the door opened again. Paul, my grandfather’s chief legal counsel, stepped inside. He carried a thick, black leather portfolio. He looked at Brandon, then at me, his expression grave.

"Hannah," Paul said gently. "I came as soon as Brandon called. I can come back another time—"

"No," I interrupted, pushing myself up against the pillows. The pain in my abdomen flared, sharp and agonizing, but I welcomed it. It was a reminder. "Bring it here, Paul."

Paul hesitated, but Brandon gave him a sharp nod. The lawyer approached the bed and opened the portfolio, revealing a stack of dense legal documents.

"These are the succession papers," Paul explained. "Once you sign these, the trust is dissolved. You will have absolute, uncontested control over the Kensington Empire, its subsidiaries, and all its assets."

Brandon handed me a heavy, gold-plated pen. I took the pen.

I pressed the nib to the paper and signed my name. Hannah Kensington. I flipped the page. Signed it again. And again. With every stroke of the pen, I felt the power returning to my veins.

I closed the folder and handed it back to Paul.

"It's done, Madam CEO," Paul said, bowing his head slightly.

"Paul, I have two orders for you," I said, leaning back against the pillows, my eyes locked onto the city skyline outside the window.

"Anything."

"My apartment," I commanded. "Send a team there immediately. Clear it out. Every cheap dress, every piece of fake jewelry, every photograph of Jules. I want it all piled up and burned to ashes."

Paul blinked, taken aback by the venom in my voice. "Understood. And the second order?"

I turned my gaze back to him. The reflection of the city lights danced in my cold eyes.

"Call my stylists in Paris and Milan. Tell them to fly in immediately. I want the finest designer wardrobe money can buy waiting for me when I am discharged."

I looked at Brandon, a dark, dangerous promise passing between us.

"The poor charity case is dead," I whispered. "It's time they met the real Kensington heiress."