Georgia jolted awake with her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest and a scream trapped in her throat, choking her.
Her hands flew to her chest immediately, searching frantically for the bullet wound that should have been there, for the blood that should have been soaking through her clothes, for any proof that she'd just died on a hospital floor while her baby was stolen and her husband watched with eyes as empty as a doll's.
However, there was nothing.
No wound. No blood. No pain beyond the phantom ache of memory.
Just smooth, unblemished skin beneath her trembling fingers.
She sat up slowly.
Breath came in short, panicked gasps that she couldn't seem to control.
The room around her swam into focus gradually from the haze of confusion that crashed over her in relentless waves.
But something was wrong. Very wrong.
Her entire body ached in ways that made her freeze and her breath catch for entirely different reasons than the phantom pain of death.
A deep, intimate soreness she recognized with growing horror. The kind of soreness that came from...
Georgia's eyes darted around the room, taking in details with mounting dread.
This wasn't any place she'd been in the past nine months of running, hiding and desperately trying to survive.
This was a hotel room.
Expensive, luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, with silk sheets tangled around her naked body.
The masculine scent lingering on the pillows, mixed with something unmistakably intimate.
And she was alone.
The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets rumpled and still slightly warm, evidence that someone had been there recently.
Very recently.
Georgia's mind reeled as recognition slammed into her.
She knew this room. She knew this exact moment with clarity because she'd lived it before, almost a year ago in her original timeline.
The Celestial Grand Hotel.
The most prestigious hotel in the city, where rooms started at five thousand dollars a night and the penthouse suites were reserved months in advance by billionaires and foreign dignitaries.
The hotel where every member of high society vied for the privilege of hosting their events, where being seen was almost as important as breathing for the city's elite.
The hotel where Arlo had hosted the Wellington Foundation's annual charity gala just last night.
Her phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, making her jump.
With trembling hands, she reached for it and heart stopped when she saw the screen lit up with multiple notifications.
Twelve missed calls. Fifteen text messages.
All from Mrs. Davies, the kind elderly woman who managed the orphanage Georgia had been funding.
The messages had started hours ago, around midnight.
[Mrs. Wellington, please call me when you can. Little Emma is having trouble breathing
Mrs. Wellington, we've called an ambulance. Emma's allergic reaction is getting worse.
We're at St. Mary's Hospital. Emma is asking for you.
Mrs. Wellington, where are you? Emma needs you]
The most recent message was from twenty minutes ago: [Emma is stable now, thank God. But she was so scared. She kept asking why you didn't come]
Georgia's stomach churned with guilt and confusion as memories from two different timelines crashed together in her mind.
In her previous life, she'd woken up late in the morning to find only one message from Mrs. Davies saying Emma's allergic reaction had been resolved.
She'd been so panicked, so desperate to make sure Emma was okay, that she'd rushed straight to the orphanage without even going home first.
She'd driven there in her wrinkled evening gown, not caring how she looked, only caring about the little girl who'd been asking for her.
But this time was different. This time, she'd woken up in the middle of the night. This time, she'd seen all the messages as they came in.
This time, the memories of what would happen a year from now, the memories of her death and her stolen child, were crashing over her in waves that threatened to drown her.
She'd been drugged.
Someone had put something in her drinks at the gala last night, made sure she was disoriented and vulnerable.
Someone had brought her to this room. Someone had been with her in this bed.
And while she'd been unconscious, while someone had been using her body, a little girl who loved her had been fighting for her life and crying out for her.
Memories of last night crashed over Georgia in waves… piecing themselves together with agonizing clarity.
She remembered standing by Arlo's side as he worked the room, playing the role of the devoted wife even though he'd barely looked at her all evening.
She'd smiled until her face hurt, made small talk with people who looked through her like she was invisible, pretended everything was perfect while dying inside.
She remembered Stella being there, stunning in a red dress that had turned every head in the room.
Her foster sister had clung to Arlo's other side all evening, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm with casual intimacy that made Georgia's stomach churn. And she'd been too naive, too trusting, too desperate to believe the best in people to see what was right in front of her face.
She'd been nervous, uncomfortable in the crowd of people who made her feel like an outsider in her own marriage.
The alcohol had helped numb the pain, helped her smile through the humiliation of watching her husband treat her foster sister with more warmth than he'd ever shown his own wife.
But there had been something else, hadn't there? Something beyond just champagne.
Georgia's head pounded as she tried to remember through the fog.
The evening had become increasingly blurry as the night wore on. She remembered feeling dizzy, disoriented, like the room was spinning around her. She'd thought it was just the alcohol, that she'd had too much to drink and needed to lie down.
Someone had helped her. A man's voice, coercing her to relax and spread her legs wider.
Strong hands steadying her when she couldn't stomach the tearing pain anymore, and fallen apart. She'd been so out of it, so confused, that she couldn't remember his face. Just the feeling of being guided throughout the ordeal, of being taken care of when she felt like she was falling apart, her screaming Arlo's name until her voice turned hoarse.
And then... nothing. A complete blank until she'd woken up in this bed with her body aching in ways that told her exactly what had happened even if her mind couldn't remember it.
She'd been drugged.
The thought made Georgia's blood run cold.
In her previous life, she'd assumed she'd just had too much to drink, that she'd embarrassed herself. She'd been so ashamed, so mortified by her own weakness, that she'd never questioned it.
But now, with the memories of her death still fresh, with Stella's cruel words echoing in her mind, she understood the truth.
Her son. The thought hit her choke back a broken sob.
The pregnancy that would result from this night would give her the only good thing in her entire marriage. Her beautiful baby boy with those striking eyes that had never quite looked like Arlo's, now that she thought about it.
The child she'd loved more than life itself, the child she'd died trying to protect.
The child who wasn't Arlo's at all.
["And as for your baby's real father? Well, that's a secret you'll never find out."]
Stella's words from her deathbed echoed in her mind, taking on new, terrible meaning.
They'd known. Somehow, they'd known all along that the baby wasn't Arlo's.
That's why they'd been so confident taking him, so sure they could get away with it. That's why Arlo had watched with such cold detachment as she'd bled out on that hospital floor.
Because the child had never been his to begin with.
Had Stella orchestrated this? Had she drugged her drinks, arranged for someone to take her to this room?
But why? What purpose would it serve?
Unless... unless they'd needed her to get pregnant. Needed her to have a child that wasn't Arlo's.