Amelia POV:

Blake' s words, cold and sharp, hung in the air long after he had gone, leaving me alone in the wreckage of my former life. My legs gave out, and I crumpled onto the plush carpet, the silk threads a comfortless parody of luxury. The master suite, our sanctuary, now belonged to her. To them.

From upstairs, muffled by the thick walls but still painfully clear, I heard Chyna' s bubbly laugh, followed by Blake' s deeper, contented chuckle. "This is perfect, my love," he murmured, his voice laced with an affection I hadn't heard directed at me in years. "You are everything the guru promised. The true anchor of this family."

An anchor. I remembered Blake whispering those exact words to me once, during our honeymoon, as we watched the sunrise over the Mediterranean. "You are my anchor, Amelia," he had said, tracing patterns on my back. "My safe harbor." The memory was a cruel twist of the knife, reopening wounds I thought were clotted over. Lies. All of it.

I moved my few boxes to the guest room, a small, impersonal space on the third floor. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish and disuse. No personal touches, no familiar comforts. It was a clear message: I was no longer a wife, merely a transient, an unwelcome guest. Each item I placed, each book on the shelf, felt like an admission of defeat. I unpacked my rose seeds-the rare varieties my mother had cultivated, her legacy, my last tangible link to her-and placed them carefully on the windowsill, hoping for a sliver of sunlight, a flicker of life in this sterile corner.

Sleep offered no escape. I tossed and turned, haunted by Blake's cold eyes and Chyna's triumphant smirk. Just as I finally drifted into a fitful slumber, a piercing cry ripped through the quiet house. It was one of the babies, a raw, distressed wail that seemed to carry an almost physical weight. Then another. And another. Something was wrong.

A prickle of unease, cold and sharp, ran down my spine. I pushed myself out of bed, a strange premonition twisting my gut. The cries were frantic, echoing through the silent mansion, far too loud, far too desperate for a simple diaper change. I heard hurried footsteps downstairs, muffled shouts, and the frantic murmurs of Blake and Chyna. A feeling of dread washed over me.

I rushed out of my room, pulling on a robe, and hurried down the grand staircase. The cries led me not to the master suite, but towards the back of the house, towards the enclosed garden. My garden. The one place where I had cultivated a small patch of my own, where my mother's roses bloomed.

I burst through the garden door and froze.

My breath hitched. The scene before me was a tableau of utter devastation. My rose garden, carefully tended, vibrant with life, was being systematically torn apart. Workers, under the supervision of Blake' s estate manager, were ripping out bushes, overturning soil, and uprooting the delicate rose plants. My mother' s roses, the rare ones I had nurtured from fragile seeds, lay bruised and broken on the ground, their vibrant petals trampled underfoot.

"No!" The cry tore from my throat, raw and anguished. It was as if a part of my own heart was being ripped from my chest. I stumbled forward, my hands outstretched, a desperate plea to stop the destruction. "What are you doing?!"

Blake emerged from the shadows, his face grim, Chyna clinging to his arm, looking pale and distraught. One of the twins was still crying fretfully in her arms, his face flushed. "Amelia," Blake said, his voice clipped, "this is necessary."

Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious. "Necessary? This is my garden! My mother's legacy! How could you do this?" My voice cracked, thick with despair.

He cut me off, his hand raising dismissively. "The guru advised it. The babies are unwell, suffering from an inexplicable malaise. He identified your garden, specifically your roses, as sources of 'unharmonious energy' that are harming them. Their negative vibrations, he said, clash with the pure essence of the destined children."

I stared at him, my mind reeling. Unharmonious energy? My roses? The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it struck me, followed by a wave of an icy, cutting despair. He was destroying the last piece of my mother, the last piece of me, for some fantastical, superstitious nonsense.

"That's insane, Blake!" I cried, my voice rising in a desperate plea. "My roses are harmless! They bring beauty, not negative energy!"

Chyna, pale and tearful, interjected, "But the guru was so clear, Amelia! The babies, they' ve been feverish all night. He said the roses were the source of their distress, draining their vitality!" She held up the crying infant, her voice laced with false concern.

Then, in a sudden, sickening movement, Chyna thrust the crying baby into my arms. "Here, Amelia! See for yourself! The negative energy is everywhere!"

My arms automatically closed around the tiny, squirming bundle. The infant's cries intensified, his small body burning with fever. My own maternal instincts, long suppressed by loss, surged to the surface. I instinctively tried to soothe him, rocking him gently.

But as I held the baby, Chyna stumbled back, crying out, "She's pushing me! She's trying to harm the baby!" She tripped over an overturned rose bush, falling dramatically to the ground, the other twin still safely in her other arm.

Blake roared, his eyes blazing with fury. He rushed to Chyna's side, ignoring me and the baby in my arms. "Amelia! What is wrong with you? Trying to hurt my child?" He snatched the feverish infant from my arms as if I were poison.

"I didn't do anything!" I protested, my voice raw. "She pushed herself! I was just holding the baby!"

"Silence!" he thundered, his voice laced with venom. "Your malicious intent is clear. Continue the work!" he commanded the estate manager, who hesitated, looking at me with pity. "Now!"

Before I could react, two burly security guards, always present but rarely seen, seized me. They twisted my arms behind my back, forcing me to my knees. The rough ground scraped against my skin, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of watching.

Helplessly, I watched as the workers resumed their brutal task. The delicate petals were torn, the strong stems snapped, the roots ripped from the earth. My mother's rare roses, the last vestiges of our shared past, were systematically annihilated. Each crunch of a breaking branch, each tear of a fragile petal, was a stab to my soul.

The garden, once a vibrant tapestry of color and life, became a desolate patch of raw earth and broken foliage. My spirit withered with it, turning cold and numb. My mother' s legacy, gone. My children, gone. My life, now a barren wasteland. The guards held me, my body shaking, until the last rose was destroyed. Then, as the final blow landed, a wave of blackness washed over me, and I sank into unconsciousness, the taste of dirt and bitter tears on my tongue.

Amelia POV:

When I resurfaced, the world was a blurry white. The antiseptic smell attacked my nostrils, pulling me further into a painful consciousness. My head throbbed, a dull ache that resonated with every beat of my heart. My left arm, my side, and my legs screamed in protest as I tried to shift. Bandages, tight and restrictive, swaddled my body.

A nurse, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, entered the room. "You're awake," she said softly, her voice filled with a professional gentleness. "Take it easy. You have several lacerations, a deep bruise on your side, and a mild concussion. You're lucky, given the circumstances."

Lucky. The word tasted like ash. Lucky to have survived Blake's latest act of cruelty. "Circumstances?" I rasped, my throat raw.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the chart in her hand. "You were brought in after an incident at your residence. Allegedly, you fell. Is there anyone we can call for you? A next of kin?"

I closed my eyes, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my chest. "No," I whispered, the word hollow and empty. "I have no family." Blake was the only family I had left, and he was the one who had put me here. The betrayal was so complete, so absolute, it was almost comical.

The nurse nodded, a flicker of pity in her eyes, before silently excusing herself. Her departure left me in a sterile silence, alone with the ghosts of my past. Blake's callous words, the guru's twisted prophecies, Chyna's triumphant sneer-they all swirled in my mind, a tormenting symphony. He hadn't even bothered to visit me. Of course he hadn't. I was just a nuisance, a loose end.

The door burst open with a jarring suddenness, making me flinch. Chyna stood there, her eyes wide, a faux look of concern plastered on her face. She rushed to my bedside, her voice a theatrical whisper. "Amelia! Oh, my dear, I was so worried! Blake told me what happened. You poor thing, you must have been so disoriented."

My blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of her performance. "Disoriented?" I replied, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Or perhaps pushed?"

She ignored my barb, pressing on. "Blake was so upset. But the guru said it was for the best, a necessary cleansing of negative energy from the house. He said your distress was simply a manifestation of your own inner turmoil." She shook her head, a practiced sigh escaping her lips. "He even said you tried to hurt me, pushing me down."

My teeth clenched. "He said what?"

Before I could react, she reached out, her hand landing squarely on my bandaged side. A sharp, excruciating pain shot through me, making me gasp. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.

"Oh, Amelia, I am so, so sorry!" she cried, pulling her hand away with feigned horror. "I forgot where you were hurt! I'm so clumsy!" Her eyes, however, sparkled with malicious glee.

I glared at her, my hand slamming down on hers, pushing it away with surprising force. "Stop it, Chyna. Don't pretend. I know what you are. And I know what you did." My voice was a low growl, laced with a venom I didn't know I possessed. "And I know your babies' 'illness' was a convenient excuse to destroy my garden, wasn't it? Another one of your pathetic schemes."

Her smile vanished. Her face hardened, a mask of calculated malice replacing the false concern. "Oh, you caught on, did you? Clever girl." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, taunting whisper. "Yes, it was. And it worked perfectly, didn't it? Just like everything else. Blake and I, we're meant to be. The guru said so, and now we have proof. Two beautiful, healthy sons."

She chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "You know, Blake and I have been together for years. Even when he was 'with' you, I was always the one he came back to. The one he confided in. The one he truly loved." She leaned closer, her breath smelling faintly of sweet perfume, a stark contrast to her bitter words. "Those miscarriages? He was with me every time. Celebrating our future, while you mourned a past he never truly wanted."

My mind reeled, a sudden wave of nausea, sharper and more potent than before, washing over me. The miscarriages. The nights Blake had been "working late," or "meditating with the guru." He had been with Chyna. Celebrating. While I was bleeding, grieving, dying inside. The sheer depravity of it.

A primal scream tore from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. My hand flew up, fueled by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage, and connected with her cheek with a resounding slap. The sound cracked in the sterile room.

Chyna shrieked, clutching her face. Blood welled up from her split lip. Just then, the door burst open. Blake stood there, his eyes blazing, a fury I had never seen directed at me etched on his face.

"Amelia!" he thundered, rushing to Chyna's side. "What have you done?" He cradled Chyna's face, his concern palpable, his gaze never once meeting mine.

My mind, though still reeling, snapped into focus. Blake wouldn't believe me. He never had. But I had something that could prove it. My hand fumbled beneath my pillow, pulling out my phone. I held it up, my finger hovering over the record button.

"Don't worry, Blake," I said, my voice trembling but gaining strength. "I have proof. Everything she just said? It's all right here. Every ugly, disgusting truth."

Chyna's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine panic crossing her face. Her carefully constructed facade cracked, revealing the fear beneath.

A grim satisfaction, cold and sharp, cut through my despair. I had nothing left, no family, no children, no garden. But I had this. This was my last piece of dignity, my last chance to expose their lies.

Blake's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. He took a menacing step towards me, his eyes now fixed on my phone. Just as he lunged, Chyna gasped, clutched her head, and collapsed to the floor in a dramatic faint.

Amelia POV:

Blake froze mid-lunge, his eyes instantly abandoning me for Chyna' s crumpled form. "Chyna! What' s wrong?" he cried, his voice laced with a genuine panic that stung me more than any blow. He scooped her up, his gaze never once returning to me, leaving me alone with the sickening realization of his true priorities. He didn't care about my pain, my broken body, or the truth. He only cared about his "destined partner" and his heirs.

"Guards!" he roared, already carrying Chyna out the door. "Secure this room! Do not let her leave or contact anyone!"

Two hulking figures in dark suits immediately materialized, blocking the doorway. My heart sank. They were Blake' s private security, loyal only to him. My phone, still clutched in my hand, was yanked away, tossed against the wall, shattering into a dozen pieces. The tiny SIM card, my only evidence, was probably ruined. All my proof, all my leverage, gone.

"You can' t do this!" I yelled, my voice hoarse. "This is illegal confinement! I have rights!"

The guards remained stoic, their faces impassive. They simply stood there, silent sentinels of my captivity. My protests faded into the sterile silence of the room. I was utterly alone, imprisoned, my voice unheard, my truth obliterated.

A week later, the door creaked open again. Not Blake, not Chyna, but a stern-faced man in a tailored suit, one of Blake's senior assistants. He held a tablet in his hand, his eyes cold and devoid of emotion.

"Mrs. Hodge," he began, his voice formal, "Mr. Hodge requests your presence for a spiritual cleansing ritual. It is for Ms. Hatfield's recovery and the continued well-being of the twins. The guru believes your participation is essential to purify the household's energies."

A spiritual cleansing. For their well-being. Not a word about me, about my injuries, about my shattered life. The sheer arrogance, the unrelenting cruelty, was breathtaking. I refused, of course, but my refusal was met with a grim silence. Without another word, two new guards entered, lifted me from the bed, and half-carried, half-dragged me out of the hospital, ignoring my cries of pain.

They drove for hours, the city lights fading into the endless stretch of highway, then a winding, unpaved road. We stopped at the base of a towering mountain, shrouded in mist. My body, still healing, screamed with every jolt of the suspension. The guards pulled me out, my legs buckling beneath me.

"What is this place?" I demanded, my voice weak.

My question was answered by a jarring ringtone. One of the guards answered, holding the phone to his ear, then grimacing. He held it out to me. Blake.

"Amelia," his voice, distorted by the poor reception, was chillingly calm. "The guru has instructed that you are to ascend this sacred mountain. Each step, a kowtow. A cleansing of your spirit, a penance for the discord you have brought into our home. For Chyna's recovery, and for the health of my sons."

My blood boiled. "I won't do it, Blake! I won't debase myself for your twisted guru and your lies!"

His voice hardened. "Think of your mother's roses, Amelia. The seeds you cherish. The last vestige of her memory. They are quite vulnerable, aren't they, out in the open? A sudden frost, an unfortunate accident..."

My breath hitched. He wouldn't. But I knew he would. He had destroyed my garden once; he wouldn' t hesitate to destroy the very last link to my past. "You monster," I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

The line went dead.

My heart felt numb, replaced by a cold, leaden weight. The guards released me, gesturing towards the steep, rocky path. Each step was agony, each kowtow a searing pain as my bruised body scraped against the rough stone. My injuries, still raw, tore open with every genuflection, blood seeping through my thin clothes. I moved mechanically, a puppet on strings, my mind disconnected from the brutal reality of my physical torment.

When I faltered, one of the guards, without a word, would grab my head and slam it against the stone steps, a sickening crack echoing in the silence. "The master's instructions," he would grunt, his face impassive. "No shortcuts in penance."

Hours later, the sun already dipping below the horizon, I reached the summit. My body was a mass of raw, bleeding wounds, my face streaked with dirt and tears. My clothes were torn, my skin abraded. I stood there, swaying, a broken, empty vessel.

Blake and Chyna were waiting, flanked by the guru, who watched me with an unsettling, knowing smile. Blake, seeing me, frowned, a flicker of something, perhaps concern, in his eyes. He took a hesitant step forward.

"Blake," I said, my voice raspy, unfamiliar even to me. I had used his full name, a stark departure from the intimate endearment I once reserved for him. "What more do you want?"

He winced, a subtle shift in his otherwise composed demeanor. Chyna, seeing her opportunity, rushed forward, a picture of fragile gratitude. "Oh, Amelia, thank you," she simpered, clutching Blake's arm. "I feel so much better already. The guru says your efforts have purified the air."

I wanted to hit her again, to wipe that smug, fake gratitude off her face. But I was utterly spent, too tired to even lift my hand. I simply turned to leave, needing to escape the suffocating hypocrisy of their presence.

Just then, a shrill, piercing alarm blared from a nearby monitor. A voice crackled through a loudspeaker: "Warning! Unstable rockfall detected! Seek immediate shelter!"

A massive boulder, dislodged by the vibrations, came hurtling down the mountainside, directly towards us. Chaos erupted. People screamed, scattering in every direction.

Blake, without a second thought, shoved Chyna behind him, shielding her with his body. He was her protector, her hero. But as he lunged to save her, his arm swung wide, slamming into my chest. The impact sent me flying backwards, off balance, directly into the path of the oncoming projectile. My head hit the ground with a sickening thud, and then, everything went black. The last thing I heard was the thunderous crash of the boulder, and Blake's distant shout, not of my name, but of Chyna's.