Chapter 3

They let me out of the cellar after two days. I was weak, running a fever from the cold.

I drifted in a haze of sickness. In my half-conscious state, I sometimes felt a cool hand on my forehead, a voice murmuring my name. I thought it might be Fletcher, a flicker of his strange, possessive "care."

When the fever finally broke, I felt strong enough to get out of bed. I walked downstairs, my legs unsteady.

The sound of laughter drew me to the living room.

Fletcher was there, sitting on the sofa. Aislinn was curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder. He was gently stroking her hair, the same way he had sometimes touched me in the dead of night when he thought I was sleeping.

A memory surfaced. One of the rare, confusingly gentle moments. He'd been tracing the line of my jaw, his touch feather-light. "So soft," he'd murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Seeing him do the same for Aislinn, so openly, so tenderly, was like a punch to the gut.

It was never me he was touching. It was always her. I was just a stand-in, a warm body to fill her space until she decided to return. The realization settled in my chest, heavy and cold as a stone.

Aislinn spotted me hovering in the doorway. "Kiara! Come, join us," she called out, her voice sickly sweet.

I wanted to turn and run. I wanted to hide in my room until Evan came for me.

"Kiara." Fletcher's voice was a command. "Sit down."

I obeyed, my body moving on instinct. I sat on the armchair across from them, feeling like a spectator at my own funeral.

Fletcher picked up a small cake from the coffee table. "You haven't eaten. Have some of this." He held it out to me.

It was a rich chocolate cake, the kind he knew I hated. The smell of it made my stomach churn. A wave of nausea washed over me.

"I'm not hungry," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"I wasn't asking." His eyes were hard. "Eat it."

I took the cake, my hand shaking. I forced a small bite into my mouth. The cloying sweetness was overwhelming. My stomach revolted.

I jumped up, covering my mouth, and ran for the nearest bathroom, where I was violently sick.

When I stumbled back out, my head spinning, I collapsed. The last thing I saw was Fletcher's face, his expression unreadable, before the world went black.

I woke up to the sterile smell of a hospital. The light was too bright.

A doctor was speaking in a low voice on the other side of a curtain. "The tests are conclusive. Mrs. Dillon is pregnant."

Pregnant. The word echoed in the silent room.

"She's about six weeks along," the doctor continued. "But her health is very poor. Malnourished, anemic... she needs complete bed rest. Another shock like the one she had could be dangerous for both her and the fetus."

The curtain was pulled back. Fletcher stood there, his face a mask of stone. Aislinn was beside him, her perfect features twisted in an ugly expression of shock and jealousy.

Fletcher looked at the doctor, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Get rid of it."

The doctor looked taken aback. "Mr. Dillon, I must advise against it. Given your wife's fragile condition, a termination procedure carries significant risks."

"I am aware of the risks," Fletcher said, his voice cold as ice. "And I have made my decision. She is my wife. The choice is mine."

I was awake. I heard every word. My hand instinctively went to my stomach. A baby. Our baby. A tiny, impossible flicker of life inside me.

And he was going to snuff it out without a second thought.

I had no say. No rights. I was just a vessel, and my contents were an inconvenience to his plans with Aislinn.

"Prepare for the procedure," Fletcher commanded the doctor, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He turned and his eyes met mine. I was lying on the bed, helpless, a tear tracing a path through the grime on my cheek.

He walked to my bedside. For a moment, I saw that flicker of something again in his eyes. Was it regret? Pity?

Then he leaned down, his voice a low whisper for my ears only. "This is for the best, Kiara. An obstacle we don't need."

It was just an illusion. Any softness was a figment of my desperate imagination. There was no humanity in this man.

They wheeled me toward the operating room. As the doors swung open, I looked back at him one last time. He stood there, watching me, his expression a cold, unreadable mask.

The procedure was a nightmare. I was awake, the anesthesia not fully taking. Pain, sharp and blinding, ripped through me.

Then, something went wrong. I heard a nurse's panicked voice.

"Doctor, she's hemorrhaging! We're losing her!"