The news anchor’s voice cut through the sterile hospital room, detailing the tragic plane crash that had claimed 136 lives. Grace Lewis, bandaged and bruised, lay on the bed, one of only three survivors. Her phone, clutched tight, offered only a recording: 'The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.' Three years of marriage to Benjamin Hawkins, and in her darkest hour, he was nowhere to be found.

Disappointment, cold and sharp, settled deep in her chest. When the phone finally rang, her heart leaped, only to sink again at the caller ID. It was Elizabeth Astor, Benjamin’s grandmother, her only ally in this gilded cage. Elizabeth’s concern was genuine, her outrage at Benjamin’s absence palpable. 'You’re both his secretary and his wife,' Elizabeth fumed. 'And now he’s gone missing?'

Grace, fueled by a simmering resolve, pulled out her IV, the pain a dull throb against her fierce determination. She needed to get out, to the Hawkins Manor, to the Hawkins Group. She needed answers. As she hobbled towards the payment counter on crutches, a familiar luxury car pulled up outside, followed by several others. Benjamin stepped out, holding a woman tenderly in his arms, her legs wrapped in his coat. He carried her into a specialist clinic, utterly oblivious to Grace’s presence. A sharp, searing pain tore through Grace’s heart. Who was this woman? And why did the whispering nurses mention a 'prenatal checkup' and '12 weeks pregnant'?