Aunt Hillary swept in with her usual air of authority, followed by two assistants carrying large boxes. Her gaze went straight to Irene's stomach, her face lighting up instantly.
"Careful, careful," she said, guiding Irene to the sofa. "You shouldn't be standing too long."
Then she clapped her hands lightly. "Bring everything in."
The assistants opened the boxes one by one.
Baby clothes. Tiny shoes. Soft blankets. A carved wooden cradle, delicate and expensive. Even a silver rattle engraved with the Reynolds family name.
Aunt Hillary touched each item lovingly. "I had these custom-made," she said, pleased. "We can't be careless with Reynolds' heir."
Only then did she turn to look at me.
Her expression cooled.
"Eleanor," she said, her tone restrained. "I heard you upset Irene last night."
I lowered my head. "I'm sorry."
"You should be," she replied flatly. "You couldn't give birth yourself, but at least don't cause trouble now. Once the child is born, everything will be settled. Until then, know your place."
"Yes," I answered.
She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to Irene. "You just focus on resting. Don't worry about anything else."
I stood there quietly, surrounded by baby things that were never meant for me.
Letting out a sigh, I returned to our bedroom and opened the wardrobe.
Everything inside suddenly felt foreign.
I packed slowly. Just essentials. No jewelry. No memories.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed.
It was my mother.
"Your father has chosen someone," she said. "The wedding will be arranged as soon as you return."
I hesitated only a second. "Alright."
"Eleanor," she added gently, "are you sure you're okay?"
I looked around the room I had once called home. At the bed where I had cried quietly so many nights.
"I'm fine," I said.
When the call ended, the door opened behind me.
Adam stood there, his gaze falling on the suitcase by my feet.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm sorting things," I replied calmly.
"For what?"
I zipped the suitcase shut and finally looked at him. "For myself."
He frowned, irritation flickering. "Don't be dramatic. Stay out of Irene's way and everything will calm down."
I smiled faintly.
"Adam," I said, "if one day I'm gone, would you even notice?"
He stiffened. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
I didn't answer.
—
That afternoon, I opened the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and pulled out an old box. Inside were photographs—years of them. Adam and me at the beginning, smiling without restraint. Our wedding. Our first home. Holidays. Birthdays. Moments I had once believed were forever.
I sat on the floor and flipped through them slowly.
In every picture, I was smiling.
I wondered when that smile had started to fade.
As evening fell, I carried the box to the fireplace. I lit the fire and placed the first photo into the flames.
The edges curled quickly, the image darkening, faces disappearing.
One by one, I fed them into the fire.
Memories turned to ash.
I had just dropped the last photo in when footsteps sounded behind me.
"What are you doing?"
Adam stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the fire.
"Those are our photos," he said, his voice tightening. "Why are you burning them?"
I stood up calmly. "They're old."
He rushed forward and reached into the fire, pulling one out too late. The corner had already burned away.
"Are you out of your mind?" he snapped. "Do you know how long we've kept these?"
I looked at him quietly. "Do you?"
He stiffened.
For a moment, confusion flickered across his face, followed by irritation. "You're overreacting again."
I said nothing.
Upstairs, Irene's voice suddenly rang out, trembling. "Adam... the lights went out in my room. I'm scared."
His expression changed instantly.
"I'll be right there," he said, already turning away.
He didn't look back.
The fire crackled softly behind me.
I watched the last of the photos collapse into ash and felt something inside me finally go still.
