Chapter 4

The days that followed were a waking nightmare. Olivia didn' t come home. She stayed at the hospital, a loyal sentinel at Liam' s bedside. My calls went to voicemail. My texts were answered with short, dismissive replies.

"He needs me."

"I can't leave him."

"You wouldn't understand."

Meanwhile, my mother was falling apart. The loss of her first grandchild, coupled with the brutal reality of Olivia's betrayal, was a weight her heart couldn't bear. Her doctor diagnosed her with stress-induced cardiomyopathy, a condition they literally called "broken heart syndrome." She grew frail, her Bubbly energy replaced by a deep, weary sadness. Her anger at Olivia was a burning coal.

"She's killing me, Ethan," she whispered one night, her hand trembling as she held a cup of tea. "First my grandson, now this. Every time you mention her name, I feel a pain in my chest. She is poison."

My own life was unraveling. I couldn't focus at work. My colleagues would offer condolences for the "miscarriage," their sympathy feeling like a hot poker on my skin. I would nod and thank them, the lie a bitter taste in my mouth. I was a ghost haunting my own life, exhausted from caring for my mother, grieving for my son, and reeling from a betrayal so profound it felt like a physical injury.

Then came the call from Olivia's doctor.

"Mr. Miller, I'm calling about Olivia's post-operative check-up. She missed her appointment."

"I'll let her know," I said numbly.

"It's important she comes in," the doctor pressed. "There were... complications during the procedure. Given its late stage, there was significant scarring. I need to be frank with you, Mr. Miller. Based on our assessment, it's highly unlikely Olivia will be able to conceive again. The damage is permanent."

Permanent infertility. The final, cruel irony. She had destroyed our only child, and in doing so, had destroyed any chance of ever having another. The news didn't bring me sadness. It brought a strange, cold clarity.

That night, I went looking for our financial statements. I had a sudden, sick feeling. I had given Olivia control of our joint savings account years ago, a gesture of trust. I logged into the bank's website. My blood ran cold.

The account was nearly empty.

Tens of thousands of dollars, gone. I scrolled through the transaction history. Large withdrawals. Wire transfers to offshore accounts. And then, the most damning evidence: massive payments made directly to a private, experimental medical clinic. The same clinic, I found with a quick search, where Liam was being treated.

She hadn't just given him her loyalty. She had given him our entire future. The money I had worked double shifts for, the nest egg for our child's college fund, all of it funneled to him. It wasn't just mismanagement. The nature of the transfers looked illegal, like money laundering.

I had to see it for myself. I drove to the private clinic, a sleek, modern building that reeked of money. I told the front desk I was there to see Liam Sterling, that I was family. They let me up.

I found his room. The door was ajar. And the scene inside broke the last remaining piece of my heart.

Olivia was there, perched on the edge of his bed. She was peeling an apple for him, her movements careful and tender. She was smiling, a real, genuine smile I hadn't seen on her face in months. Liam, looking pale but smug, was leaning back against the pillows, watching her with a proprietary air.

"You're a lifesaver, Liv," he was saying, his voice smooth. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I'd do anything for you, Liam," she said softly. "You know that."

"Even get rid of a little problem for me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

My breath caught.

Olivia's smile didn't waver. "It wasn't a problem. It was a sacrifice. For you. For us."

"Good girl," he said, patting her hand. "Once I'm out of here, once the final treatment phase is done, things will be different. We'll have all the money we need. Miller will be out of the picture. It'll be just like it was supposed to be."

I stumbled back from the door, a wave of nausea washing over me. It wasn't a superstition. It wasn't madness. It was a plan. A cold, calculated, monstrous plan. My son's death wasn't a tragic, misguided act. It was a transaction. And I was the one who had been played for a fool from the very beginning.

---