In the days that followed, it was as if they were deliberately punishing me.
Everywhere I turned, I would "accidentally" stumble upon their moments of intimacy—Weston feeding Patricia tenderly, massaging her hands and swollen feet, or gently applying pregnancy oil to her growing belly.
Sometimes, at night, I would hear him whisper stories to the child in her womb—the same stories he used to tell to my unborn baby.
They looked like the perfect, loving couple, eagerly awaiting their child's arrival.
And I...simply watched in silence. Only waiting for the right moment to strike.
I knew Weston kept something in his study—something that could expose everything he had done.
Finally, one day, my opportunity came. Weston had gone out, and the house fell silent.
I slipped quietly into his study, turned on his computer, and began searching.
When I finally found the evidence I needed, I shut the device and turned to leave.
Just as I was about to head back to my room, a faint burnt smell made me stop in my tracks.
I followed it and turned the corner—only to see Patricia standing by the brazier, tossing something into the flames.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, my brows knitting in suspicion.
Patricia turned, her face painted with that sickeningly gentle smile.
"Sister, I know how sad you've been since the miscarriage. I was afraid these baby clothes would make you even sadder, so...I'm helping you let go."
As she spoke, she flicked her wrist and threw the last tiny piece of fabric into the fire.
"No!"
I lunged forward, shoving my hand into the flames, desperate to save what I could. By the time I pulled back, all that remained was a charred scrap of fabric.
After losing my child, those little clothes were all I had left.
Every night, I slept with them beside my pillow. Now, even that last thread of comfort was gone.
I clutched the scorched cloth to my chest, tears falling heavily onto the ashes.
"Sister, what's wrong? I only did this for your own good," Patricia said, stroking her belly with mock innocence, though pride glimmered behind her eyes.
Her false sweetness made my blood boil. My hand moved before I could think—slap!
"You... you dare hit me?" she gasped, disbelief etched across her face—then, suddenly, she laughed.
"So you've found out, haven't you?" she hissed. "You know how all your children died?"
Her voice was low, venomous. She seized my burned hand and squeezed until pain shot through my fingers.
"It's not enough, Denise. You've lost too little." Her voice was venomous, her eyes twisted with hatred. "I'll make sure you lose everything."
The pain in my fingers was unbearable. I wrenched my hand free with all my strength.
"Ah!"
Patricia screamed as she lost her balance and tumbled backward down the stairs.
"Patricia!"
Weston's voice roared through the hall just as he walked in. He rushed forward and caught her limp body at the bottom of the staircase.
Through trembling lips, Patricia sobbed, "Sister...why did you push me?"
The world froze.
When I lifted my gaze, I met Weston's. His expression was dark, thunderclouds gathering behind his eyes.
I knew that look too well—it was the same one he wore before he destroyed anyone who crossed him.
I backed away, trembling. "I didn't...she tried to burn the baby clothes I made...I just wanted to stop her."
"You know how important those clothes were to me…" My voice cracked. "I didn't push her—she fell by herself!"
But Weston was already consumed by rage.
"Just a few scraps of fabric are more important to you than your sister's life?" he snarled. "Do you even know she's pregnant? How could you be so cruel?"
"Didn't I warn you never again?"
I tried to step back, but before I could move, Weston's hand shot out—pushing me hard.
"No!"
My body hit the stairs, pain exploding through me. My abdomen throbbed violently—the old wound had torn open.
Warm blood spread beneath my hands. My face turned pale as the world blurred.
But the pain in my body was nothing compared to the agony in my heart—watching the man I once loved become my enemy.
"Weston…" My voice trembled as tears streaked down my cheeks. "I really regret it...I regret ever loving you."
For a moment, Weston froze, holding Patricia tightly in his arms. But he still didn't turn around.
He walked away without a backward glance.
I dragged myself out of the villa, each step heavier than the last, until my strength gave out and I collapsed on the roadside, unconscious.
