No. No. No!
He kicked the shattered pieces of the urn so hard they flew across the floor and cracked against the wall. Ceramic fragments rained like glass.
I froze. My breath stalled in my throat. My body wouldn't move.
My chest convulsed. A sound clawed up my throat, too broken to be a scream, too raw to be a cry.
Hugo stepped in front of me. His hand wrapped around my face his fingers pressing into my cheeks until I felt bone.
“Enough,” he growled. “Enough of this spectacle.”
I blinked at him. His expression was carved from stone. No guilt. No grief. Nothing.
“I almost believed you. For a moment, I almost pitied your little corpse.”
His thumb dragged along my jaw. The touch burned.
“But then the clinic sent proof. Videos of Caleb laughing. Sitting up. The doctor said you exaggerated everything. Said you used him. Said you let him pretend he was worse just so you could collect pity.”
A lie. Her lie.
My gaze drifted past him... to the stairs.
Myra stood halfway up, one hand resting on the rail. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light, and there it was, that tiny smile curling the corner of her mouth like she was savoring a secret victory.
She bought those photos. She paid off the doctor. She spun the story. And Hugo swallowed it whole, like he always did.
They headed upstairs. Myra leaned her head on his shoulder, her steps slow and delicate.
“Come to bed, amor,” she murmured. “I can’t breathe another second around her.”
Milo looked back just once, disgust flickering in his eyes—before lifting his chin and following his mother.
The house fell silent. I stayed on the floor, hands torn and bloody, gathering the last pieces of my child with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Hours passed. Or maybe the world just forgot to move.
I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I sat outside my room, knees pulled to my chest, dried blood on my palms, the taste of salt still trapped in my mouth.
Past midnight, I heard a cough.
Then Hugo’s voice. Sharp. Frantic.
“Myra, look at me. What hurts? Tell me.”
I didn’t move.
Myra’s cries rose like thunder through the walls.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasped. “Oh God, Hugo! My stomach, my chest, she cursed me. That urn! Ever since she brought that death into this house... something’s choking me!”
Footsteps thudded. Hugo paced. Swore.
“That bitch.”
Myra’s voice cracked into a trembling whisper.
“I heard the maids… they said she bought poison. Something… something meant for me. Maybe she put it in the urn. Maybe she wanted me gone. I’m scared, Hugo. I’m pregnant. I don’t want to die… not me… not the baby.”
The door slammed open like a gunshot. Hugo stormed in, his rage so thick I could taste it.
He grabbed my wrist and yanked me up from the floor.
“You did this.”
My ankle twisted. My arm burned. His grip was iron.
“You poisoned this house,” he roared. “You cursed her. You knew she was carrying my child and you still brought death into these walls.”
“I didn’t—”
He cut me off with a jerk so violent I choked on my breath.
“She almost died tonight! Is that what you want? You want her dead?”
He dragged me into their room and shoved me forward.
“KNEEL.”
I didn’t move.
“I said kneel.”
“No.”
The slap cracked across my face. Stars burst behind my eyes.
“On your knees.”
I stood.
He kicked the back of my legs. Pain shot up like fire. I dropped hard—skin tearing open again. The floor stained red beneath me.
Myra sat on the couch like a queen receiving tribute. Her hair immaculate. Her swollen stomach framed by a soft blanket. She pressed her hand to her chest as if fragile, but her eyes were sharp. Hungry.
“I don’t believe her,” she whispered. “She doesn’t sound sorry. Make her louder, Hugo. I want to hear her break.”
Hugo towered behind me, a shadow ready to crush.
“Apologize,” he hissed. “Until she forgives you.”
My lips trembled. My voice splintered.
“I’m sorry.”
Again.
“I’m sorry.”
Again. Until my throat burned. Until my voice cracked. Until I felt something inside me tear open and bleed.
Myra rose slowly, clutching her belly, swaying on her feet.
“H-hugo… something’s wrong.” Her voice shook with manufactured terror. “My stomach… I think I’m bleeding—”
Myra collapsed cleanly—right into Hugo’s arms, as if she’d rehearsed the fall in front of a mirror.
He caught her instantly, clutching her like she was carrying the last heir of the underworld.
“Myra. Amore! Stay with me,” he choked out, his voice cracking as he cradled her face. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. Breathe, baby, breathe.”
Her eyelids fluttered like a saint under attack.
“Hugo… I’m scared…”
He snapped toward the hallway, shouting loud enough to shake the walls.
“Get the damn car! Move!”
