I couldn't stay in the hospital.

I just couldn't.

The endless white walls felt suffocating, and the silence was unbearable. There was only one thing I needed to do.

I had to see George.

I had to look him straight in the eyes and find out if the man whose voice I'd heard beside my hospital bed was truly the man I'd married.

Pulling my coat tighter around my battered body, I flinched as the rough fabric grazed my stitches. The cold night wind stung my skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbness settling deep inside my heart.

The taxi rolled through the gates of our estate, and my breath caught.

The mansion was glowing.

Every window blazed with light. Luxury cars crowded the driveway, each one belonging to the people George proudly called friends. Through the open windows came the sound of lively jazz, laughter, and clinking glasses.

A celebration.

My baby had died.

I had barely survived.

And my husband was hosting a party.

I pushed open the massive oak doors.

The first thing that hit me wasn't the music.

It was the laughter.

The entrance hall was packed with guests holding champagne glasses, chatting and smiling as though nothing terrible had ever happened.

"Happy birthday, George!"

Someone called it out from the living room.

Right.

His birthday.

Of course.

I stepped inside.

The hospital wristband still circled my wrist, my face pale and stripped of makeup, the bruises impossible to hide.

Conversation died almost instantly.

One guest after another turned toward me.

Even the music seemed to falter.

George stood beside the fireplace, swirling a glass of scotch while his arm rested comfortably around Donna's waist.

She was wearing my favorite red dress.

The moment his eyes landed on me, every trace of color vanished from his face.

The tumbler slipped from his hand and exploded against the marble floor.

"Eliza...?"

His voice cracked.

The room fell into absolute silence.

"Weren't expecting me?" I asked quietly. My throat was raw, but my voice didn't shake.

I walked farther into the room.

People instinctively stepped aside, staring at me as though they were seeing someone who had come back from the dead.

"Oh my God!"

Donna rushed forward, covering her mouth dramatically.

"Eliza! You're... you're actually here!"

George recovered enough to glare at me.

"What are you doing?" he muttered through gritted teeth, glancing nervously around at the confused guests.

I met his stare.

"I live here, don't I?" I replied evenly. "Am I no longer allowed to attend my own husband's birthday party?"

Whispers spread through the crowd.

"My goodness..." Mrs. Vansant murmured, clutching the necklace around her throat. "We heard you'd been in a terrible accident."

Another guest looked at me cautiously.

"...Is the baby all right?"

The room became impossibly still.

George's jaw tightened.

His eyes bored into mine, silently warning me not to say a word.

"We were told your condition was critical," George announced, forcing an uneasy smile for the audience. "The doctors weren't sure you'd survive. We... we were simply trying to prepare ourselves."

"But I did survive," I answered, never looking away from him.

"Against all odds."

Donna hurried over and seized both of my hands.

Her perfume was overpowering.

"Oh, thank heavens," she breathed dramatically. "I've been worried sick about you. I've cried all night."

My gaze dropped to the hands gripping mine.

Then I slowly looked back at her.

"You recovered pretty quickly yourself," I said. "Fast enough to slip into my dress."

Her smile flickered.

"I... I didn't pack anything. I rushed over the moment I heard what happened..."

"Eliza."

George's voice cut sharply across hers.

"You're obviously not well. You should be resting, not standing here."

He grabbed my arm.

His fingers dug painfully into my bruises.

Turning toward the guests, he forced another smile.

"If you'll excuse us, my wife needs to lie down."

Without waiting for my response, he dragged me upstairs.

The bedroom door slammed behind us.

The instant it locked...

His pleasant expression vanished.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled. "You were supposed to stay in that hospital."

"So I could die there?" I shot back.

For the briefest moment...

He froze.

Then his expression hardened.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "The doctors were treating you."

"Treating me?" I let out a bitter laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. "I heard everything, George. Every single word. I heard you order them to kill me."

He dismissed it with a careless wave.

"You were drugged. The anesthesia messed with your head. You're imagining things."

Then he jabbed a finger toward me.

"Look at yourself. You burst in here looking half-dead, ruined my birthday party, and humiliated me in front of the board."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"Humiliated you?" I cried. "Our baby is dead, George! We lost our child!"

"And whose fault is that?"

His voice exploded through the room.

He stepped closer until I instinctively backed away.

"What?"

"If you hadn't been so careless..." he snapped. "If you hadn't been standing where you were, none of this would've happened."

His finger pointed accusingly inches from my face.

"Do you have any idea what you've cost me? Grandfather is furious. That trust fund depended on producing an heir. Now I have to explain why his future great-grandchild is gone because you couldn't keep your footing."

I could only stare.

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

"Is that really all this is to you?" I whispered.

"The money?"

"It's bigger than money!" George barked, pacing furiously. "It's my future. My legacy. My company."

He raked a hand through his hair.

"That's why I married you. That's why I tolerated everything. And you failed."

His eyes burned with disgust.

"You had one responsibility."

I repeated the words numbly.

"One responsibility."

"To give me an heir."

He looked me up and down with open contempt.

"And now look at you."

His lip curled.

"You can't have children anymore."

He laughed bitterly.

"So tell me, Eliza... what use are you now?"

The ache inside my chest became almost unbearable.

Yet somehow...

Everything suddenly became clear.

The tears stopped.

The trembling disappeared.

I looked at the man I had loved for three years.

The man I had defended whenever anyone questioned him.

The man I had nearly given my life for.

And for the first time...

I felt absolutely nothing.

A smile slowly touched my lips.

It wasn't warm.

It wasn't sad.

It was cold enough to match his.

"You're right," I said quietly.

His brows drew together.

"What?"

"I'm infertile now."

I nodded once.

"Our baby is gone."

"And that means I'm worthless to you."

Slowly, I slipped my wedding ring off my finger.

It felt strangely heavy.

Like chains I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

I placed it on the bedside table between us.

The soft clink echoed through the room.

"Then divorce me," I said, meeting his eyes without a trace of fear.

"Right now."

The wedding ring landed on the nightstand with a dull clink. It spun once, then twice, before finally coming to a stop between us.

I waited for George to explode.

I expected him to point at the door, tell me to get out, and order the staff to throw everything I owned onto the front lawn. I had already accepted that possibility. In fact, I welcomed it. Walking away from him was all I wanted.

Instead of losing his temper, he laughed.

The sound was quiet, almost amused, but there was something so cold about it that it sent a shiver through me. He strolled toward the nightstand and, without breaking eye contact, casually knocked my wedding ring onto the floor with the tip of his shoe. It slid across the hardwood and disappeared into the darkness beneath the bed.

"A divorce?" he repeated with a faint smile. "Do you honestly think I'd let you leave me that easily?"

My brows knitted together as my heartbeat quickened.

"Why wouldn't you?" I asked. "You just finished telling me I'm worthless. You said I can't give you an heir anymore, that I'm damaged and useless. If that's how little I mean to you, why stop me from leaving?"

His smile vanished, replaced by something far uglier.

"So you can run straight back to him?" he said bitterly.

I stared at him, completely confused.

"Back to who?"

His patience snapped.

"Don't stand there pretending you don't know what I'm talking about, Eliza!" he thundered. The sharp scent of scotch lingered on his breath as he closed the distance between us. "Did you really think you could fool me forever? Do you honestly believe I'm stupid?"

"I don't know what you think you've heard, but—"

"I know you've been cheating on me."

The accusation struck me harder than any slap ever could.

For a long moment, I simply stared at him.

"Cheating?" I echoed, barely able to find my voice. "George... I have never been with another man. Since the day I fell in love with you, I've never even looked at anyone else."

His expression hardened.

"Liar."

He turned abruptly, crossed the room, and yanked open one of the dresser drawers. A thick envelope appeared in his hand, and before I had a chance to react, he threw it at me.

The corner struck my chest before the envelope burst open, scattering photographs across the bed.

My gaze dropped to them.

Every picture was of me.

One showed me sitting alone at a café with a cup of coffee.

Another captured me walking out of an office building.

A third showed me crossing a busy sidewalk.

At first, I couldn't understand what George wanted me to see.

Then I noticed him.

A man appeared somewhere in every photograph.

He was always in the background, never close enough for his features to be seen. Sometimes he was walking in the opposite direction. Sometimes only his back was visible. Other times his face was hidden beneath shadows or blocked by passing pedestrians.

I picked up one of the pictures, trying to make sense of it.

"Who is he?" George demanded.

I looked up at him, utterly bewildered.

"What?"

"The man in those photographs," he snapped. "Tell me who he is."

My fingers trembled as I studied the image again.

"I don't know."

His face darkened immediately.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," I insisted, looking more closely at the stranger. "I've never seen him before. George, he could be anyone. He's just someone who happened to be walking nearby. I don't know this man."

George let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"You expect me to believe that? You expect me to believe you don't recognize the man you've been sleeping with?"

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"The man who fathered your bastard child."

My mouth fell open.

"The baby?" I whispered. "You actually think our baby wasn't yours?"

"It wasn't."

He didn't hesitate.

"If Donna hadn't uncovered the truth, I would've spent the rest of my life raising another man's child."

The mention of her name made my stomach twist.

"Donna?"

"She found the messages," George said. "She noticed how secretive you'd become and started paying attention. Eventually she hired a private investigator because she couldn't bear watching her own sister make a fool out of me."

"She's lying."

I shook my head desperately.

"There were never any messages. There was never another man. George, can't you see what she's doing? She's manipulating you because she wants you. She's wanted you all along."

"Enough."

Before I realized what he was doing, his hand shot forward and clamped around my jaw.

His grip was painfully tight, forcing me to look directly into his eyes.

"You're not leaving me," he said in a voice so quiet it was almost frightening. "You don't get to walk away and start a new life with whoever you've been sneaking around with. You don't deserve that."

His fingers pressed harder into my skin.

"You're going to stay in this house, and you're going to live with what you've done. Every single day, you'll remember how you betrayed me."

"George... please..."

"George!"

The bedroom door opened before I could finish.

Donna hurried inside, her hands clasped dramatically against her chest, her face carefully arranged into an expression of panic.

"Stop, George," she pleaded as she rushed toward us. "You're hurting her. She's barely recovered."

She reached for his arm and gently pulled him away from me.

To anyone else, she probably looked like a worried sister trying to stop a fight.

But I saw the truth.

As George turned toward her, Donna looked straight at me, and for the briefest second, triumph flashed across her face.

Then the mask returned.

"Eliza," she said gently, reaching toward my shoulder, "are you all right? I kept telling George not to lose his temper. I only wanted the truth to come out. I never wanted things to go this far..."

I slapped her hand away before she could touch me.

"Don't."

My voice shook with fury.

"Touch me."

Months of grief, betrayal, and heartbreak surged through me all at once.

I didn't stop to think about what I was doing.

I simply reacted.

With every ounce of strength I had left, I shoved her.

Donna cried out dramatically as she staggered backward. Her heels caught on the edge of the rug, sending her crashing into the vanity. Glass perfume bottles toppled over, jewelry trays hit the floor, and mirrors rattled as everything came down in one deafening crash.

"Eliza!"

George rushed to Donna without even glancing in my direction. He caught her before she could fall completely and held her as though she were the one who had just survived a life-threatening accident.

She buried her face against his chest and began sobbing.

"She attacked me," Donna cried between exaggerated sobs. "I was only trying to help her. I only wanted to save your marriage."

George slowly lifted his head.

The fury burning in his eyes made my skin crawl.

"You're insane."

"No," I shot back. "She is."

I pointed directly at Donna.

"She arranged those photographs. She hired someone to follow me. She's been feeding you lies for years because she wanted to drive us apart."

"I've heard enough."

George's voice echoed through the room.

He stepped in front of Donna as though shielding her from me.

"If you insist on behaving like an animal," he said coldly, "then I'll start treating you like one."

He walked to the bedroom door, pulled the key from the lock, and stepped outside.

Only then did I realize what he intended to do.

"George, don't."

He looked back at me without the slightest hint of sympathy.

"You're staying in this room until I decide otherwise."

Before I could reach him, he slammed the door shut.

A second later, I heard the unmistakable click of the lock.

I rushed forward and threw myself against the heavy wooden door, pounding on it with both fists.

"George!" I shouted. "Open the door!"

I kept banging, my voice growing more desperate with every second.

"Please! Let me out!"

No one answered.

The hallway remained silent for several long moments before Donna's soft voice drifted through the door.

"Come on, darling," she said sweetly. "Leave her alone. She can rot in there."

Their footsteps slowly faded until I couldn't hear them anymore.

The strength left my legs.

I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, my face buried in my hands as silent tears slipped through my fingers.

I was trapped inside my own home. My baby was gone, my husband had become a stranger, and the woman I had trusted more than anyone had destroyed my life piece by piece. Together, they had taken everything that had ever mattered to me—my child, my marriage, my dignity, and now even my freedom.

I cried until there were no tears left, but somewhere beneath the grief, another emotion quietly took root. It was colder than sorrow and stronger than despair, growing steadily in the darkest corners of my heart.

If George and Donna wanted to make me the villain of their story, then I would become exactly that—and they would learn far too late what kind of monster they had created.

The silence inside the bedroom dragged on until it became almost unbearable. It wrapped itself around me like a heavy blanket, pressing against my chest and making it difficult to breathe. My stomach twisted with hunger, but the thought of eating made my throat tighten with nausea.

Eventually, I heard the lock turn.

I didn't bother getting up. I remained sitting on the floor with my back against the door as it slowly opened.

Donna walked in carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water balanced neatly on top.

"Eliza," she said gently, her voice coated with false sympathy, "you must be starving. I brought you something to eat."

I didn't even look at her.

"Get out."

The words scraped painfully from my throat.

She let out a soft sigh, as though I were the one making things difficult, then placed the tray on the bedside table before settling herself comfortably on the edge of the bed. As she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt—my skirt—I felt another wave of anger rise inside me.

"I'm not here to fight," she said sweetly. "I just want us to move forward. The sooner you accept reality, the easier this will be for everyone."

I slowly lifted my eyes to meet hers.

"Reality?" I repeated. "You mean the part where you're sleeping with my husband?"

"We love each other," she answered without the slightest hint of shame. "George and I understand one another in ways you never could. He needs someone who truly fits into his life. Someone who can give him everything he's been missing."

"You mean someone who can give him a son," I said bitterly. "The child I couldn't have because your precious George nearly had me killed."

She clicked her tongue and shook her head as though speaking to a stubborn child.

"You shouldn't think that way," she murmured. "Deep down, you've always known the truth. You were never the right woman for George. You were far too delicate."

"I was his wife."

"And you were unfaithful to him."

The innocence on her face made the lie even more revolting.

"You know that's not true," I snapped. "Those pictures were staged. You hired someone to follow me."

She shrugged, and for the first time since she'd entered the room, the carefully crafted mask slipped.

"What difference does it make?" she asked with a slow smile. "George believes every word I say. That's all that matters."

I stared at her in disbelief.

"You're a pathetic excuse for a woman."

Instead of taking offense, her smile only widened.

She rose from the bed and walked over until she was standing directly in front of me, looking down at me as though I were something disgusting stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

"You can insult me all you want," she said. "It won't change the fact that George chose me. You're nothing but a broken shell now. You can't give him children, you can't give him a future, and you certainly can't give him what he wants. Tell me, Eliza... why would any man hold on to something that's already broken when he has something new waiting for him?"

As she spoke, she rested a possessive hand against her stomach.

The gesture alone made my blood boil.

I forced myself to stay calm.

Slowly, I drew in one deep breath after another.

She wanted me to fall apart.

She wanted to watch me cry.

I refused to give her that satisfaction.

Ignoring the sharp pull of my stitches, I pushed myself to my feet and stood directly in front of her.

"You might be right," I said quietly.

For a split second, surprise flickered across her face.

"George may want you. He may even be sleeping with you."

I took one slow step closer until only inches separated us.

"But answer me this, Donna."

She frowned.

"If you're really the woman he wants, why am I the one he refuses to let go?"

Her expression stiffened.

"He locked me in this room because he won't allow me to leave," I continued. "He told me himself that he isn't giving me a divorce. Which means that as long as I'm alive..."

I tapped my own chest.

"...I'm still Mrs. George Caldwell."

Then I gently pressed a finger against hers.

"And you?"

A small smile curved across my lips.

"You're just the mistress."

I watched her jaw tighten.

"The woman he sneaks around with."

Her breathing became noticeably heavier.

"The one he hides behind closed doors."

I leaned in slightly.

"And when he eventually gets bored—which he always does—you'll discover just how replaceable you really are."

The color drained from her face before returning in an angry flush.

"You actually think a marriage certificate gives you power?" she hissed. "He despises you."

"No," I replied calmly. "He hates the fact that he can't control me anymore."

I held her gaze without blinking.

"And he clearly still needs something from me."

I smiled faintly.

"Otherwise, I would've died in that hospital."

Donna glared at me so fiercely I thought she might slap me.

Instead, she spun on her heel and marched toward the bedroom door.

"Enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Caldwell," she said with a mocking laugh. "I'll be spending the night with your husband."

The door slammed behind her.

A second later, the lock clicked back into place.

The hours that followed crawled by endlessly. Sleep never came. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard George's voice ordering the doctor to kill me or saw my baby's tiny heartbeat disappearing forever.

By the time the first rays of sunlight slipped through the curtains, I was exhausted.

The lock turned again.

This time it was George who walked inside.

He carried a cup of fresh coffee as though he were a loving husband bringing breakfast to his wife instead of the man who had imprisoned her.

"Morning, Eliza," he said casually, placing the mug on the bedside table.

I slowly sat up, pulling the blanket closer around me.

"George."

"You seem much calmer today," he observed while adjusting the cuff of his shirt. "Yesterday you were... emotional. It was becoming rather concerning."

"I wasn't exactly thinking clearly," I replied carefully, watching his reaction.

"I suppose that's understandable," he said with a dismissive shrug. "Losing a baby can affect a woman's emotional state."

His tone was so detached it made my stomach turn.

Then he glanced at his watch.

"Grandfather turns eighty tomorrow. The family is gathering for dinner, and naturally we'll both be there. We also need to bring him a proper gift."

He looked at me with his usual commanding expression.

"I'm heading into the city to the auction house. You're coming with me."

I blinked.

"I am?"

"Of course."

He sounded almost annoyed that I had asked.

"We need everyone to see that everything is fine between us. The last thing we need is more gossip."

After a brief pause, he added, "Donna will be joining us."

I felt my fingers curl tightly beneath the blanket.

"Donna's coming?"

"She has better taste than either of us when it comes to antiques," he replied matter-of-factly. "Besides, after what you did to her yesterday, you owe her an apology."

I looked at him in disbelief.

"You expect me to apologize to the woman you're having an affair with?"

His expression darkened.

"I expect you to apologize to my sister-in-law for attacking her."

The calm mask he'd been wearing slipped just enough for me to glimpse the anger underneath.

"If you can't manage something that simple," he continued, "then perhaps you really do belong in a psychiatric hospital."

He stopped talking and simply watched me.

He was waiting for the argument.

For the tears.

For me to scream about fairness.

But the woman who still believed life was fair had died in that hospital.

I lowered my eyes and drew a slow breath before forcing a small smile onto my face.

It felt unnatural.

Foreign.

But convincing enough.

"You're right," I said quietly.

George frowned.

"I am?"

I nodded.

"I wasn't myself yesterday. I let my grief get the better of me, and I shouldn't have pushed Donna."

I deliberately looked ashamed.

"She's family. I want to make things right."

George studied me closely, searching for any sign that I was lying.

Apparently, he found none.

A satisfied smile spread across his face.

"That's more like it."

He reached over and patted my head as though rewarding an obedient pet.

"I knew you'd come to your senses."

Then he reached into his pocket and tossed my phone onto the bed.

"Get dressed," he said. "We're leaving in an hour."

He paused at the doorway before adding one final warning.

"And don't make me regret giving that back."

With that, he walked out, leaving the bedroom door unlocked for the first time.

I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps before reaching for my phone.

My hands trembled—not because I was afraid, but because my pulse was racing.

The screen lit up.

There were dozens of missed calls.

My mother.

Friends I no longer knew whether I could trust.

I ignored every single notification.

There was only one message I cared about.

It came from a contact saved under a single name.

Nico.

I opened it.

I'll be seeing you soon, future wife.

Be ready.