The morning after the gala, I awoke to the sound of voices in the hallway outside my new quarters in the servants' wing. Through the thin walls, I could hear Madeline's melodic laugh echoing through the mansion.

"I simply adore this room," she cooed to someone. "The morning light is perfect for my skincare routine."

I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the throbbing headache that had followed me since last night's humiliation. The servants' quarters were a far cry from the master suite—the bed was narrow and stiff, the windows small and drafty.

A sharp crash from downstairs made me flinch. Then came Madeline's voice, high and panicked.

"Help! Someone help me!"

I rushed from my room, following the sound to the main living room. What I saw froze me in place.

Madeline sat on the floor amid the shattered remains of an antique Chinese vase—one of Damon's prized possessions. Blood dripped from a slice on her forearm, staining her pristine white blouse crimson.

"Oh my God," I whispered, moving toward her instinctively. "Let me help you—"

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, scrambling backward. "Haven't you done enough?"

Damon appeared in the doorway, his face contorted with rage as he took in the scene. "What happened?"

Madeline's eyes filled with tears—perfect, crystalline tears that somehow managed to make her look even more beautiful. "She attacked me," she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "I was just admiring the vase, and she... she said I didn't deserve to touch anything in your house."

"What? No!" I shook my head frantically. "I just got here. I didn't—"

"Enough!" Damon roared, his hands clenching into fists. "I've had enough of your lies!"

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my arm with bruising force. "You're jealous," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "You've always been jealous of Madeline."

"Damon, please," I whispered, my voice catching. "I would never hurt anyone."

But his eyes were wild, unfocused—his memory impairment making him susceptible to Madeline's manipulation. I could see the confusion behind his anger, the way he struggled to reconcile what he was seeing with what he thought he knew.

"Take her away," Madeline whimpered to someone behind us. "She scares me."

Damon's grip tightened as he dragged me toward the stairs. "You need to learn your place."

"Damon!" I gasped as he pulled me down the staircase, my legs barely keeping me upright. "You're hurting me!"

He didn't respond. His face was a mask of cold fury as he yanked me through the kitchen and down another flight of narrow stairs—the ones leading to the basement.

The door slammed open with a rusty screech, and cold, damp air rushed over me. The basement was dark except for a tiny window near the ceiling that let in a sliver of morning light.

"Perhaps a night down here will help you remember who you're dealing with," Damon growled, shoving me inside.

The door slammed shut with finality, and I heard the key turn in the lock. I sank to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest as the chill from the concrete seeped through my thin nightgown.

Hours passed. The basement grew darker as day turned to evening. I developed a fever—my skin burning one moment, shaking with chills the next. My throat ached with each shallow breath.

I crawled to the tiny window, pressing my palm against the cold glass. Outside, I could see the garden stretching toward the iron gate that separated the mansion from the rest of the world. Freedom lay just beyond that gate, but it might as well have been on another planet.

A soft scraping sound at the door startled me. It creaked open just enough for someone to slip inside.

"Miss Elisabeth," James whispered, his weathered face creased with concern. "Are you alright?"

"James," I croaked, my voice barely audible. "How did you—"

"I have the spare key," he explained, helping me to sit up. From inside his jacket, he produced a small bottle of pills and a thermos. "Mr. Lewis sent these. Antibiotics for your fever."

"Aaron?" My heart swelled at the mention of his name.

James nodded grimly as he wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders. "He's been watching the house since last night. Said he couldn't stand by anymore."

"Thank you," I whispered, clutching the blanket. "But Madeline will tell Damon—"

"Miss Madeline and her mother have taken control of Mr. Mitchell's journals," James interrupted, his voice dropping even lower. "They're rewriting his memories, making him believe things that aren't true."

The implications sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with my fever. If Madeline could manipulate Damon's written records...

"What else have they done?" I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

James glanced nervously at the door. "More than you realize, Miss Elisabeth. Much more."

The morning light filtering through the basement's tiny window woke me from my feverish dreams. My body ached as I curled tighter on the cold concrete floor, James's blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. The antibiotics had helped somewhat, but my throat still burned with each breath.

The door crashed open with such force that dust rained down from the ceiling. Damon stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face twisted into something barely recognizable.

"Get up," he commanded, his voice like ice.

I tried to rise but my legs buckled beneath me. "Damon, please—I'm still sick—"

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my arm and yanking me to my feet. "Your pathetic excuses won't work anymore."

His grip bruised as he dragged me up the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the grand foyer. The mansion's staff had assembled in a semicircle—maids, gardeners, even the cooks from the kitchen. Their faces showed a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity.

Madeline stood at the center, resplendent in a cream-colored dress that highlighted her perfect complexion. Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Kneel," Damon ordered, pushing me toward Madeline.

My knees hit the marble floor with a crack that sent pain shooting up my thighs. The fever made the room spin around me as I tried to focus on Madeline's face.

"I found my journal this morning," Damon announced to the gathered staff, holding up a leather-bound book. "It reminded me of something I'd forgotten."

He flipped it open, his finger tracing lines that I knew had been altered. "Elisabeth Duncan has been a dangerous influence in this house."

"Damon," I whispered, "that's not true."

"Silence!" His hand struck my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the side. "You will apologize to Miss Fisher for your behavior."

Madeline stepped forward, her perfume suffocating as she leaned down to meet my eyes. "I'm waiting."

"I'm sorry," I managed, my voice cracking.

"Louder," Damon demanded. "So everyone can hear your shame."

"I'm sorry," I repeated, louder this time, tears burning behind my eyes.

"For what, exactly?" Madeline prompted, her voice honey-sweet with malice.

"For... for attacking you. For being jealous." Each word tasted like poison.

The staff shifted uncomfortably, but none dared speak. I saw James at the back, his weathered face tight with suppressed anger.

"Good," Madeline purred, straightening up. "Now perhaps you'll remember your place."

Damon nodded curtly, then dismissed the staff with a wave. As they scattered, he grabbed my arm again. "Back to the basement. You'll stay there until you learn proper respect."

---

Three days later, I discovered the small plus sign on the pregnancy test James had smuggled to me. My hands trembled as I stared at it, unable to process what it meant.

A child. Damon's child.

I pressed my palm against my still-flat stomach, a wild hope blooming in my chest despite everything. Perhaps this could change things. Perhaps when Damon learned he would be a father, something in his broken mind might heal.

That evening, when James brought my dinner, I whispered, "I need to see Damon. Alone."

"Miss Elisabeth," he warned, "after what happened—"

"Please," I begged. "This is important."

An hour later, James led me to Damon's study. He knocked softly before opening the door.

"Mr. Mitchell, Miss Elisabeth would like a word."

Damon looked up from his desk, his expression hardening. "What does she want?"

"To speak with you privately," James replied, then quietly withdrew.

I stood in the doorway, my heart hammering against my ribs. Damon's study was the one place in the mansion where he kept memories of Catherine—photographs, letters, a single white rose pressed between the pages of his favorite book.

"What is it?" he demanded, setting down his pen. "Make it quick."

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. "I have something to tell you."

His eyes narrowed. "If this is another attempt to manipulate me—"

"I'm pregnant."

The words hung in the air between us. Damon's pen dropped to the desk with a clatter.

"What did you say?" His voice had lost its edge, becoming uncertain.

"I'm carrying your child," I whispered, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach.

Something shifted in his expression—confusion, disbelief, and something else I couldn't name. Slowly, he rose from his chair and crossed the room until he stood before me.

Without warning, he reached out, his large hand gently covering mine where it rested on my abdomen. His touch was so tender it made my breath catch.

"Is this... is this real?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

For a moment, the walls between us seemed to crumble. His eyes met mine, clear and searching—almost like the Damon I'd glimpsed in unguarded moments over the past five years.

"Yes," I whispered, hope fluttering in my chest like a fragile bird. "It's real."