I polished Ariella's silver hairbrush for the third time that week, my fingers tracing the intricate monogram engraved on the handle. Kaiser had been explicit about the maintenance of her shrine room—dust the photographs weekly, replace the flowers daily, ensure nothing is disturbed.
"Nothing changes in here," he'd instructed coldly. "This is how she left it. This is how it stays."
The afternoon light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long shadows across Ariella's perfect belongings. Her perfume collection lined the vanity—crystal bottles catching the light like tiny prisons of memory. I reached for the last bottle, a rare French scent she'd worn on special occasions.
My sleeve caught the edge of the vanity. The bottle toppled, hitting the marble floor with a sound that seemed to echo through the entire penthouse. The crystal shattered, releasing a flood of amber liquid that spread across the white marble like blood.
"Scarlett!"
Kaiser's voice cut through the air before I could even process what had happened. He appeared in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway. Something dark and feral crossed his face as his eyes took in the scene—the broken glass, the spreading stain of Ariella's precious perfume.
"How dare you," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "How dare you destroy what little remains of her?"
He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing my shoulders with a force that would leave bruises. His fingers dug into my flesh as he shook me, his face inches from mine.
"She's gone because of you," he hissed. "And now you can't even respect what's left of her memory?"
"Kaiser, please," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "It was an accident—"
"You've never been good enough," he cut me off, his eyes cold with disgust. "Not good enough to live, not good enough to honor her properly."
He released me abruptly, stepping back as if touching me contaminated him. "You'll stay here tonight. Perhaps surrounded by what you've destroyed, you'll finally understand what you've taken from us."
The lock clicked with terrible finality as he closed the door behind him. I heard the key turn, followed by his retreating footsteps.
Darkness fell slowly around me. I curled beneath Ariella's portrait, her painted eyes seeming to judge me from above. The perfume's scent filled the air—a ghostly presence that wouldn't let me forget what I'd done.
---
"Mrs. Morrison has fainted," someone called out at the charity gala.
I came to in a private room backstage, Kaiser's cold hand gripping mine with unnecessary force.
"The doctor says you're dehydrated," he informed me, his voice carrying just enough concern for the hovering staff. "We'll get you checked properly at the hospital."
The examination room was sterile and bright. The doctor's face remained professionally neutral as he delivered the news.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Morrison. You're approximately two months pregnant."
I searched Kaiser's face for any sign of emotion—joy, anger, anything. His expression remained carved from stone.
"Thank you, doctor," he said smoothly. "We'll discuss our options."
In the car ride home, silence stretched between us like a living thing. I stared at my hands, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe.
"We're handling this permanently this time," Kaiser finally said as we pulled into the underground garage. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "No more pills. No more mess. You'll receive a more substantial intervention tomorrow morning."
The private facility was clinical and cold. The doctor's eyes never met mine as he prepared the instruments.
"This will only take a few minutes, Mrs. Morrison," he said, his voice detached. "Mr. Morrison has arranged everything."
The procedure was more painful than I'd imagined. More humiliating. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to give Kaiser the satisfaction of hearing me cry.
Afterward, I lay in the recovery room, staring at the ceiling. A nurse entered with a massive arrangement of white lilies—funeral flowers.
"From your husband," she said cheerfully, adjusting the IV drip. "Aren't they beautiful?"
There was no card.
---
The second annual memorial dinner transformed our penthouse into a mausoleum of memories. Peyton had outdone herself, arranging a video tribute that played on screens throughout the space.
"Everyone gather around," she called, her voice dripping with false warmth. "We've prepared something special to honor Ariella."
The screens flickered to life, showing Ariella's radiant smile. The footage captured her charity work, her accomplishments, her perfect life—all intercut with wedding photos of her and Kaiser looking blissfully in love.
Peyton ensured I was positioned where everyone could watch my reaction. My mother wept dramatically, clutching my father's arm.
"She was so young," someone murmured. "Such a tragedy."
The video ended with Ariella's final public speech: "I believe in giving everything to those I love. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
Peyton took the microphone, her eyes finding me in the crowd.
"Ariella would be so touched to see how we honor her memory," she said, her voice carrying across the hushed room. "She was always so generous, so selfless—giving everything to those she loved."
Her gaze locked with mine, the message clear: I had taken everything and given nothing in return.
The room spun slightly as I felt the weight of every eye upon me—judging, condemning, remembering what I had cost them all.
