Preston was walked out, still screaming, as the summit carried on without him.

That night, in the damp Bronx apartment, Khloe cornered the broken Preston. “You lost everything! You promised to marry me! Pay the rent!”

Their fight turned ugly. He grabbed her, shouting that she’d ruined him—that if she hadn’t whispered in his ear, he’d still be a king. Khloe spat blood and smiled, a desperate calculation crossing her bruised face.

“You can’t leave me, Preston. I’m pregnant.”

He stared at her stomach, the horror of the delivery room rushing back. What he didn’t know was that I was already listening to every word.

Chapter 4: The Phantom Pregnancy

Autumn rain lashed the glass of my office at the Sterling Center. I stood sipping black coffee, listening to the encrypted comms unit on my desk. Arthur Miller’s voice crackled through, thick with dark amusement.