Seven years ago, I bought a tiny white casket.
I was twenty-two, recovering from a shattered pelvis and a hollowed-out abdomen. I had thrown myself across the console to shield Roger when the truck hit our car. He walked away with bruised ribs. I lost my uterus, and our six-month-old son.
The grief was so heavy I couldn't breathe. On the day of the burial—a burial Roger barred me from attending because I was "too fragile"—I broke out of my hospital room. I found an empty display casket in the basement of the morgue and climbed inside, praying the dark would just swallow me whole.
Roger found me. He dragged me out, his tears soaking my thin gown.
"Ysabel, stop!" he had sobbed, clutching me so tight my broken bones ached. "I don't care about kids! I just need you. You are my everything. Please, stay alive for me."
I stayed alive.
And three years later, he got his twenty-four-year-old secretary pregnant.
"The Thorne family needs an heir, Ysabel. You know this."
Roger’s voice was completely steady as he tossed the glossy ultrasound photo onto the kitchen island. No guilt. No hesitation. Just a cold, calculated business update.
I stared at the black-and-white image of the tiny bean. My chest hollowed out, the phantom pain of my own lost child screaming in my blood.
"Cheska is young," he continued, adjusting his expensive tie in the mirror. "Her vitals are perfect. When the baby is born, we’ll bring it home. It will call you Mom. It’ll be just like the one we lost."
My hands started to shake.
Just like the one we lost.
He said it so casually, as if my dead son was just a defective product he was finally replacing. The promises he made to me on that cold morgue floor were nothing but dust.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. The absolute betrayal just left me numb.
I reached into my bag, pulled out the divorce papers I had signed that morning, and slid them across the marble counter.
"Sign them," I whispered. "I only have one child, Roger. And I only want to be his mother. You and Cheska can have your perfect beautiful life. I want out. And I want to know where my baby is buried."
For ten years, he had hidden the grave from me. He claimed it was to protect my mental health, to stop me from spiraling. I had begged on my knees, year after year, just to lay a single flower for my son. He always refused.
Roger snatched the papers. His knuckles turned white as he ripped them in half, then into quarters, throwing the shreds at my feet.
"You think you can just walk away from me?" he sneered, closing the distance between us. "You want to play the victim, Ysabel? Fine. Let’s see how much you really want to find that grave."
He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising my skin, and dragged me out into the freezing Seattle rain.
He didn't stop driving until we reached the VIP wing of Seattle Grace.
He shoved me through the double doors of the luxury maternity suite. The room smelled of expensive vanilla and sterile alcohol.
Cheska was lounging on the plush hospital bed, eating imported grapes and scrolling through her phone. She looked up, her lips curving into a sweet, venomous smile.
"Roger, baby, you brought her?" she cooed.
Roger pushed me forward so hard I stumbled to my knees at the foot of her bed.
"Listen to me very carefully," Roger said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You will stay here. You will serve Cheska. You will make sure she and my heir are perfectly comfortable. If you do exactly as you're told until the baby is born... I’ll tell you where your son is buried."
My breath caught. "Roger... no. Please."
"If you refuse," he cut in, his eyes devoid of any warmth, "I will have his grave paved over by tomorrow morning."
He knew. He knew exactly how to break me.
So, I became a ghost in that room.
For three days, I swallowed my dignity. I fetched Cheska’s ice water. I massaged her swollen ankles while she complained about the hospital food. I watched, silent and hollow, as Roger brought her roses, kissing her forehead, whispering the same sweet nothings he used to whisper to me.
The air in the room was suffocating.
On the fourth afternoon, Roger leaned over the bed, his hand resting intimately on Cheska’s stomach. She giggled, pulling his face down for a deep, lingering kiss. She locked eyes with me over his shoulder, her smirk victorious.
Bile rose in my throat. I couldn't breathe.
I stumbled out of the room, pushing through the heavy doors into the freezing, empty corridor. The winter draft hit my face, but it wasn't enough to stop the panic attack.
My chest seized. The walls were closing in.
With trembling, frantic fingers, I dug into my coat pocket for my medicine. I just needed the pain to stop. I just needed to numb the image of them together.
I popped the white pill out of the foil. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely lift it to my mouth.
Suddenly, the suite door slammed open.
Roger stood there, his eyes flashing with an ugly, irrational rage.
"What the hell are you doing?" he barked.
Before I could even speak, he lunged forward. His hand cracked against my wrist.
The pill flew from my fingers, bouncing off the cold hospital tiles and disappearing down the dark hallway.
