Chapter 1

My family was a masterpiece of deception, a carefully curated gallery where every smile was a brushstroke hiding a rotting canvas. From the outside, we were the envy of the art world. My mother, a formidable art dealer with a gaze that could appraise a soul as easily as a sculpture, and my father, a respected gallery owner whose quiet demeanor masked a spine of cold steel. My older brother, a charming appraiser, completed the portrait of success. And then there was me, Chloe, the family artist, the sensitive one, the one they cultivated like a prized, delicate orchid.

But I always felt the chill in the greenhouse, a lingering shadow of a long-buried scandal that no one ever named, a secret that made me a stranger in my own home.

Then I met Liam. He was an architect, a man who built things, solid and real. He seemed like the foundation I never had. He loved my art, he said he loved my soul, and for the first time, I felt seen not as a fragile piece in a collection, but as a person. His love was a warm, bright room in a house of cold, drafty corridors. When he asked me to marry him, it felt like escaping the gallery for good.

Our life was a quiet symphony of domestic bliss. His blueprints spread across the dining table, my canvases leaning against the walls, the scent of turpentine mixing with his coffee. He was everything my family was not: present, warm, and transparent.

So when I held the positive pregnancy test in my shaking hand, my first thought was of him. I imagined his face lighting up, the future he would start designing for us, for three of us.

"We're pregnant," I whispered to him that night, my heart thumping against his back as we lay in bed.

He rolled over, his eyes wide in the pre-dawn light. A slow smile spread across his face, pure and overwhelming. "Chloe," he breathed, pulling me into a hug that felt like it could hold the entire world together. "A baby. Our baby."

For the next few weeks, he was a caricature of the doting husband. He forbade me from lifting anything heavier than a paintbrush, he brought me breakfast in bed, and he would spend hours with his hand on my still-flat stomach, talking to our child about the buildings he would design and the worlds he would build. The warmth I had craved my whole life was finally here, a sun I could bask in. Life was perfect. Too perfect.

The turn came after a routine prenatal visit, the one where they offered the advanced genetic screening. We agreed to it without a second thought, another box to check on the path to our perfect family. The results were supposed to be emailed in a week.

The day the email was due, I found Liam standing in his home office, staring at his computer screen. His back was rigid, his shoulders tight. The warmth had vanished from the room, leaving a vacuum of icy dread.

"Liam?" I said softly. "Is everything okay?"

He didn't turn around. "Liam, what is it? Is it the results?"

He finally swiveled in his chair, and the face he turned to me was one I had never seen before. It was a mask of cold fury and disgust. His love, the great solid foundation of my life, had crumbled to dust in a single afternoon.

"We have to get rid of it," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.

I stared at him, my mind unable to process the words. "Get rid of it? What are you talking about? The baby?"

"Don't call it that," he snapped.

"Liam, you're scaring me. What did the test say? Is something wrong with the baby's health?" My voice trembled.

He stood up, towering over me. "I said, we are terminating the pregnancy. Tomorrow." He gave no explanation, no comfort, no reason. Just a command. The man I loved was gone, replaced by this cold, cruel stranger.

The doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive. Before I could move, Liam went to answer it. My mother, father, and brother walked in. I felt a surge of relief. They would help me. They would talk sense into him.

"Mom, Dad," I cried, rushing toward them. "Liam... he wants me to have an abortion. He won't tell me why."

My mother put her hands on my shoulders, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my skin. Her face, usually a mask of serene sophistication, was twisted with a grim resolve that mirrored Liam's.

"He's right, Chloe," she said, her voice like chipping ice.

"You have to do this," my father added, his tone leaving no room for argument.

My brother, usually so charming, sneered. "Don't be stupid, Chloe. You can't have this... thing."

The room spun. My own family, my husband, all of them standing against me, a unified front of hostility. They closed in on me, their faces hard and unforgiving. They started talking about the child being "unnatural," "tainted." The words made no sense.

"No," I whispered, backing away. "I don't understand. No!"

Their persuasion turned to force. My brother grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. Liam took my other. They were dragging me, forcing me toward the door, toward a car that would take me to a clinic. I fought. I screamed, I kicked, I clawed at them, a wild animal fighting for its young. My mind was a blizzard of terror and confusion. Why were they doing this?

I managed to wrench myself free, my purse flying across the room. I bolted out the back door, into the cold, damp evening. I ran, blindly, desperately, into the labyrinth of city alleys. Their footsteps pounded behind me. I heard my brother shout my name, not with concern, but with venom.

I slipped on the wet pavement, my body crashing hard against the unforgiving concrete of a desolate alley. A sharp, searing pain shot through my abdomen. I gasped, looking down. A crimson stain was spreading across the fabric of my dress. The world tilted, the grimy brick walls closing in. The life I had cherished, the tiny, innocent life inside me, was slipping away in a dark, forgotten corner of the city. My family found me then, their faces impassive as they looked down at my broken form. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the utter lack of love in their eyes.

My next conscious thought was of sterile white walls and the smell of antiseptic. They hadn't taken me to a hospital. They had committed me to a private mental institution. They told the doctors I had a psychotic breakdown, that I had imagined the pregnancy, that I was a danger to myself. For months, I was a ghost in a white gown, wandering halls of silent screams. They drugged me into compliance, subjected me to psychological torment that chipped away at my sanity until I wasn't even sure what was real anymore. I was a liability, a loose thread in their perfect tapestry, and they were methodically, patiently, pulling me apart. I faded, piece by piece, until one day, I simply stopped. I succumbed to the neglect, my body and spirit finally broken. I died alone, my family' s secret safe.

Then, I opened my eyes.

Sunlight streamed through the familiar window of my bedroom. The sheets were soft against my skin. I sat bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked at my hands, my body. I was whole. I touched my stomach. Flat. No pain. No blood.

I scrambled out of bed and looked at the calendar on my phone. My blood ran cold. It was the day. The day the genetic test results were due. The day my world had ended.

And it was all about to happen again.