Chapter 153
Chapter 153:
“There is a doctor,” Susan said. “He was stripped of his license at Mount Sinai for falsifying clinical trial data. He is desperate for money. For half a million dollars, he will produce a flawless, digitally authenticated blood test and ultrasound report showing you are six weeks pregnant with Cole Compton’s child p>
Alycia’s heart hammered against her ribs. The scale of it terrified her. “Mom — if Cole discovers we falsified medical records, he will destroy us completely p>
“He won’t discover anything,” Susan snapped. “The Compton family is obsessed with bloodlines. The moment Eleanor learns there is an heir, she will force Cole to marry you and secure the child legally. Once you have the ring and the legal status, we stage a tragic miscarriage. You become the grieving wife. Your position is permanent p>
Alycia stared into her own frightened eyes in the mirror.
She thought of June’s cold, untouchable composure. She thought of Cole’s hand closing around the Cartier brooch and tearing it from her dress in front of the entire elite class of New York. The humiliation. The dismissal. The casual, absolute cruelty of being treated as irrelevant by someone she had spent years trying to possess.
The toxic venom of that memory dissolved her fear completely.
Her breathing steadied. She reached out and picked up the medical brochure, crushing the glossy paper slowly in her fist.
A smile spread across her face — calculated, composed, and entirely without warmth.
P𝗗𝖥𝘀 𝗼𝗇.сo𝗆
“Call the doctor,” she said. “Tell him I need the paperwork by Monday p>
Monday evening.
The sky over Manhattan had turned a bruised, violent purple. The air pressure was dropping fast, announcing the arrival of a massive thunderstorm.
Inside the Beasley mansion, Alycia paced the living room floor, biting her thumbnail, her pulse running hot with a toxic blend of adrenaline and dread.
Resting on the glass coffee table was a thick official-looking medical envelope. Inside it was the forged blood work and ultrasound report — flawless, authenticated, and entirely fictitious — confirming a pregnancy of six weeks.
Susan sat on the sofa with a glass of red wine, watching her daughter with cold, calculating eyes.
“Stop pacing,” she said. “You cannot simply hand him the envelope. You need to plant the physical symptoms in his mind first p>
Alycia stopped. “How p>
“Go to his office building tonight,” Susan said. “Intercept him in the parking garage. Force your way into his car. You need to look pale. Dizzy. On the verge of collapse. Make him physically witness the symptoms before you drop the document tomorrow p>
Alycia drew a breath. She went upstairs, scrubbed the blush from her cheeks, and applied a sickly, washed-out layer of foundation. She changed into a thin white silk dress that made her look fragile and cold. She pushed the forged envelope deep into the hidden compartment of her Hermès bag.
At six o’clock, Alycia stood in the shadows of the VIP underground parking garage at Compton Tower. She had paid a security guard a thousand dollars to text her the moment Cole’s private elevator began its descent.
Her phone vibrated.
The heavy steel doors slid open.
Cole walked out — jacket unbuttoned, tie loose, the exhaustion of the day visible in every line of his posture. He moved toward his black Bentley.