He Made Me Jump While Carrying Our Twins

Lucien believed her.

Vanessa—the woman he could never let go of—had staged her own fall and pointed the finger at me. And without a second thought, he turned against me.

I was nine months pregnant when he dragged me to his amusement park, fury clouding his judgment. His men buckled me into a bungee harness, my belly heavy, my heart hammering, my voice breaking as I pleaded, “Please, Lucien… I didn’t touch her.”

He didn’t flinch.

“This isn’t divorce,” he said coldly. “This is retribution. For Vanessa’s pain… I’ll make sure you suffer worse.”

Then—he signaled.

And I dropped.

Over and over, the fall repeated. Each descent stole more of my breath, more of my strength. The rope snapped me back like a cruel reminder: there was no escape. And then—warmth. A gush between my legs. A pain I couldn’t place, but feared the truth of.

By dawn, I was curled beside the pool, barely conscious.

Lucien found me there. His gaze drifted to the water—where two tiny shapes floated motionless.

“What are these toys doing here?” he scoffed.

But they weren’t toys.

They were his children.

The twins I carried.

The lives he ended… all because he believed a lie.