The cooler in my husband’s trunk had another woman’s name on the bag inside. I was thirty-six weeks pregnant. I knew exactly what Julian Killian planned to take from me. Last time, he cut our daughter out of my body at full term and handed her to the woman he loved. I died two days later. This time, I woke up pregnant again, with nine months to change the ending. Now I have six days. On October 10, he has a hospital booked, a surgeon waiting, and his dying first love depending on a donation only my baby can give. I have no money, no allies, no way out. Julian controls the house, the cars, the doctors—every door. But he needs my body. So I will break it myself before he can use it. I’m going to fall down the stairs on purpose. If a mother destroys herself to save her child, can she ever be forgiven for what she becomes after?