Chapter 7 - The Ghost of the Gallery
Three weeks passed. The Texas winter arrived with a sharp, freezing wind that cleared the smog from the Dallas skyline.
Khloe was finally discharged from the hospital, though she refused to go back to the grand Thorne Manor where Victoria’s presence still lingered like a foul perfume. Instead, Marcus had moved them into a highly secure, private penthouse in the Arts District—a place filled with natural light, high ceilings, and walls covered in the contemporary art Khloe loved.
Their son, whom they named Liam Marcus Thorne, was still in the NICU, but he had been taken off the mechanical ventilator. He was now breathing on his own, his weight slowly climbing toward four pounds. Every day, Marcus and Khloe would sit by his incubator for hours, practicing skin-to-skin contact, watching his tiny fingers wrap around Marcus’s pinky finger.
One afternoon, while Marcus was at the office finalizing the dissolution of the Rossi merger, Khloe received an unexpected visitor.
The penthouse elevator chimed, and Lucas stepped out, followed by a young woman with dark circles under her eyes, wearing a simple denim jacket. Khloe recognized her immediately: it was Elena, Isabella’s personal assistant from the Coyoacán art gallery where Khloe used to work.
"Khloe," Elena said, her voice shaking as she clutched a worn leather satchel to her chest. "I’m so sorry to burst in on you like this. But I saw the news about Isabella... and about your baby. I couldn't stay quiet anymore."
Khloe sat up on the sofa, adjusting her thick knit cardigan over her healing abdomen. "Elena? What are you doing in Dallas?"
"I ran away from Mexico City last week," Elena confessed, dropping to her knees by the coffee table, her eyes filled with a deep, unresolved guilt. "Before the gala... before you were attacked, Isabella and Victoria Thorne had a private meeting at the gallery. They thought I was out at lunch, but I had left my phone on the desk... it recorded everything."
Elena reached into her satchel and pulled out an old digital voice recorder, placing it on the table. She pressed play.
Victoria’s elegant, unmistakable voice filled the room. “The girl has to disappear, Isabella. Marcus is getting too attached to the idea of this child. If she carries it to term, the trust fund locks us out. Here is the medical clearance from Dr. Mendoza in Mexico. It’s an unprescribed labor inducer. Mix it into her tea during the charity luncheon next week. If she miscarries overseas, Marcus will think it was just a medical complication.”
Isabella’s voice followed, sharp and triumphant. “And if she refuses to drink it?”
“Then find a way to make it look like an accident. A fall down the stairs. An assault by a random stranger. Just make sure that baby never takes a breath.”
Khloe felt a cold sweat break out across her neck. The sheer, calculated malice of the recording made her stomach twist into a tight knot. They hadn't just gotten lucky with the hospital attack; they had been hunting her child for months.
"Lucas," Khloe said, her voice trembling but clear. "Get this to Marcus immediately. Don't use the phone. Hand-deliver it to his office."
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"Right away, ma'am," Lucas said, taking the recorder with a grim expression.
As the elevator doors closed, Khloe walked over to the grand window looking out over the city. She pressed her hand against her stomach, the physical scars from the stiletto heel still throbbing under her clothes. She realized then that the battle wasn't just about saving her marriage—it was a war for the survival of her family.
