The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine times as I made my way to Cohen's study, each resonant note seeming to echo the dread pooling in my stomach. Raven had summoned me—that was the only word for it. Not asked, not requested, but summoned with the kind of quiet authority that brooked no argument.

The study door stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the darkened hallway. I could hear the low murmur of voices within—Cohen's familiar baritone and Raven's honey-gravel whisper. My hand hesitated on the brass handle, the baby shifting restlessly in my belly as if sensing my reluctance.

"Come in, Tatum." Raven's voice carried through the wood before I could knock.

I pushed the door open to find Cohen seated behind his mahogany desk, his face stern and unreadable in the amber glow of his banker's lamp. He wouldn't meet my eyes. Raven stood beside him like a pale sentinel, her white robes seeming to absorb and reflect the light simultaneously.

"Please, sit." She gestured to the leather chair across from Cohen's desk—the same chair where I'd once curled up to read while he worked late into the night. Now it felt like a defendant's seat.

I lowered myself carefully into the chair, my hand automatically moving to cradle my belly. The baby kicked, a sharp jab against my ribs that made me wince.

"Spiritual transgressions require spiritual purification," Raven began, her voice taking on that measured, hypnotic cadence I was beginning to dread. "The egg you broke this morning was not merely food—it was a symbol of life, of potential. To waste such a thing carelessly creates ripples of negative energy that poison the healing we're trying to achieve."

My mouth went dry. It had been an accident—I'd been reaching for the carton and knocked one to the floor. Such a small thing, barely worth mentioning. But Raven had been there, watching with those pale, calculating eyes.

"I don't understand what you want me to do," I whispered.

Raven moved to the desk and placed something before me—a thin sewing needle that gleamed like a silver fang in the lamplight. Beside it, she set a stack of cream-colored paper, each sheet pristine and waiting.

"You will write a purification mantra ninety-nine times," she said, her tone as serene as if she were discussing the weather. "But words alone are insufficient. True contrition requires sacrifice. You will write each line with your own blood."

The world seemed to tilt sideways. "You can't be serious."

"The spirits demand—"

"No." The word burst from my lips before I could stop it. "This is insane. I'm not doing this."

Cohen's voice cut through the air like a blade of ice. "Do you want my grandfather to die because of your stubbornness?"

I stared at him, this man I'd loved and married, who was looking at me now like I was a stranger—or worse, an enemy. "Cohen, this isn't about your grandfather. This is—"

"This is about purification," Raven interjected smoothly. "About cleansing the toxic energy that threatens not only the healing process but your unborn child. Every moment you resist, every second you allow your pride to override your family's needs, you feed the darkness that could destroy everything you claim to love."

My hands were shaking now, trembling so violently I had to clasp them together to stop it. Cohen still wouldn't look at me directly, his gaze fixed on some point just over my shoulder.

"The mantra is simple," Raven continued, sliding the top sheet of paper closer. "'I release my selfish desires to serve the greater light.' Ninety-nine times. Begin."

With numb fingers, I picked up the needle. The point was sharp enough to draw blood with the slightest pressure. I looked at Cohen one last time, silently begging him to intervene, to remember the man he used to be before grief and desperation had hollowed him out.

He said nothing.

I pricked my fingertip, gasping at the sharp sting. A bead of crimson welled up, bright and shocking against my pale skin. With my trembling hand, I began to write.

'I release my selfish desires to serve the greater light.'

The letters came out shaky and uneven, my blood too thin in some places, too thick in others. By the tenth repetition, my finger was throbbing. By the twentieth, I had to prick it again. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mixing with Raven's ever-present sandalwood.

"The spirits are pleased with your submission," Raven murmured, her voice carrying a note of barely concealed satisfaction that made my skin crawl.

By the fiftieth repetition, my hand was cramping agonizingly. The words blurred together on the page, crimson smears that looked more like wounds than writing. I could feel Raven watching me, drinking in my suffering like wine.

Cohen never once met my eyes, even when I finished the ninety-ninth line and stumbled from the room, cradling my bleeding hand against my chest like a broken wing.

In the hallway, I pressed my back against the cool wall and tried to breathe. The baby kicked frantically, as if trying to escape the madness that had invaded our home. I looked down at my stained fingers, at the evidence of my submission written in my own blood, and wondered how much more of myself I would have to sacrifice before this nightmare ended.

The morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows as I knelt on the cold marble floor, my pregnant belly making the position awkward and painful. The scrub brush felt heavy in my swollen hands, each stroke across the pristine tiles sending sharp aches up my arms. Six months pregnant, and here I was on my hands and knees like a servant in my own home.

"The floors must be spiritually cleansed," Raven had announced at dawn, her voice carrying that infuriating tone of false compassion. "Pride creates energetic residue that clings to surfaces. Only through humble service can you purify the contamination you've brought into this sacred space."

My back screamed in protest as I shifted to reach another section, the baby kicking frantically against my ribs as if trying to escape this humiliation. Sweat dripped from my forehead onto the marble, mixing with the harsh cleaning solution that made my eyes water.

"Tatum." Cohen's voice made me freeze, the scrub brush suspended mid-stroke.

I looked up hopefully, my heart leaping at the sight of him standing in the doorway. For a moment—just a moment—something flickered across his face. Guilt? Recognition of how wrong this was? His eyes took in my awkward position, my stained clothes, the way my hands trembled from exhaustion.

"Cohen, please," I whispered, reaching one soapy hand toward him. "This isn't right. The baby—"

But the softness vanished from his expression as quickly as it had appeared. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable to meet my desperate gaze.

"It's necessary spiritual discipline," he muttered, the words sounding rehearsed. "Raven says... she says it's the only way to cleanse the negative energy before it affects Grandfather's healing."

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall toward his study. I heard the clink of glass—whiskey, probably. Always whiskey when he couldn't face what he was allowing to happen.

I remained kneeling on that cold floor long after he'd gone, tears mixing with the cleaning solution as I scrubbed the same spot over and over, wondering how the man who'd once carried me over this very threshold had become someone who could walk away from my suffering without a backward glance.

The next evening, my hands still raw from scrubbing, I remembered the medication Dr. Chen had prescribed for my blood pressure. The pills were in my purse, which I'd left in the sitting room near Grandfather's quarters. The readings had been elevated at my last appointment, and missing doses wasn't an option—not with the baby depending on me.

I made my way quietly through the dimly lit hallway, my bare feet silent on the Persian runner. As I approached the sitting room, I heard Raven's voice through the partially open door, speaking in that hypnotic cadence she used during her "healing sessions."

"The spirits are gathering, Mr. Mitchell. Can you feel their presence? The healing energy is building to its crescendo..."

I pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, my eyes immediately finding my purse on the side table. But as I reached for it, the floorboard beneath my feet creaked—a tiny sound that seemed to echo like thunder in the hushed room.

Raven's head snapped toward me, and for one terrifying instant, her serene mask slipped completely. Her pale eyes blazed with pure, undiluted fury—the look of a predator whose kill had been interrupted. Then, just as quickly, the expression vanished, replaced by her usual ethereal calm.

"Tatum," she said, her voice carrying a note of profound disappointment. "You've disrupted the spiritual convergence at its most critical moment."

Grandfather lay still in his bed, his breathing shallow and labored. I clutched my purse to my chest, the pill bottle rattling inside.

"I just needed my medication. I didn't mean—"

"Intent is irrelevant," Raven cut me off, rising gracefully from her chair beside the bed. "The damage is done. The healing energy has been scattered, possibly costing Mr. Mitchell his last chance at recovery."

When Cohen arrived home an hour later, Raven was waiting with tears in her eyes—perfectly crafted tears that spoke of spiritual devastation and personal betrayal.

"She burst in during the most delicate phase," Raven whispered, her voice breaking with manufactured emotion. "I felt his spirit beginning to heal, beginning to return from the threshold, and then... the negative energy she carries shattered everything."

Cohen's face went white, then flushed red with rage. He looked at me as if I were a stranger—no, worse. As if I were an enemy.

"How could you be so selfish?" His voice was barely controlled, shaking with fury. "How could you risk Grandfather's life for something so trivial?"

"Cohen, please, it was just my blood pressure medication. The baby needs—"

"Enough." The word cracked like a whip. "You need to learn control. You need to understand the consequences of your spiritual contamination."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh as he dragged me down the hallway. My heart began to race as I realized where he was taking me—the storage room at the back of the house. Windowless. Airless. Dark.

"No, Cohen, please—" My claustrophobia surged immediately, panic clawing at my throat. "You know I can't—not in there—"

But his face was blank, emotionless, as he opened the door and shoved me inside. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was Raven standing at the end of the hallway, her pale eyes glowing with satisfaction in the dim light.

The darkness swallowed me whole.