My name is Sofia Valdés. I am twenty-six years old, seven months pregnant, and as I sat in the plush pink velvet armchair at the center of the room, I felt less like a guest of honor and more like a sacrificial lamb. The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of gossip. Around me, balloons bobbed against the ceiling like trapped spirits, and the forced smiles of high society gleamed under the crystal chandeliers.

Standing in front of me was Marcos, my husband. He was the charming architect who had swept me off my feet, the man with the jawline of a movie star and a soul that I was beginning to suspect was made of drywall and empty promises.

And beside him, holding a silver tray with a single, ornate cupcake, was Clara.

Clara was Marcos’s “efficient” personal assistant. She was the woman who organized his schedule, bought my birthday gifts, and, as I would discover in the most agonizing way possible, warmed his bed while I sat at home knitting booties.

“It’s a special recipe, Sofia,” Clara said. Her voice was smooth, like syrup pouring over cold steel. She leaned in, her eyes failing to crinkle with the smile plastered on her red lips. “Just for the mom-to-be. To calm your nerves. I had the chef make it with lavender extract.”

She wasn’t wrong about the nerves. For months, I had been a ghost in my own life. Splitting headaches that blinded me. Nausea that the doctors dismissed with a wave of a hand and a “it’s just pregnancy, dear.” A weakness in my legs that made me feel like a ragdoll with the stuffing pulled out.

I took the cupcake. It looked innocent. Beautiful, even.

I bit into it.

It was sweet, cloying, the sugar hitting my tongue with an aggressive intensity. But beneath the floral notes of lavender, there was something else. A metallic aftertaste. Almost imperceptible, like licking an old copper coin or biting your tongue.

Thirty seconds. That was how long it took for my world to end.

First came the heat. A liquid fire exploded in the pit of my stomach, a volcano erupting without warning. It roared up my esophagus, burning like battery acid. I dropped the rest of the cupcake. It tumbled in slow motion, smearing pink frosting across the Persian rug.

Then, the air disappeared. I tried to inhale, to gasp, but my lungs felt as though they had been filled with wet concrete. The room began to spin, a dizzying carousel of terrified faces. The guests stretched and warped, their features melting like wax in a nightmare painting.

“Sofia!” someone screamed. The voice sounded underwater, miles away.

I collapsed. I felt the impact of my shoulder hitting the hardwood floor, but the pain was distant, irrelevant. What I felt with terrifying clarity—a sensation that pierced through the fog—was my baby. My little Lucia. She was writhing violently inside me.