The silence inside the bedroom dragged on until it became almost unbearable. It wrapped itself around me like a heavy blanket, pressing against my chest and making it difficult to breathe. My stomach twisted with hunger, but the thought of eating made my throat tighten with nausea.
Eventually, I heard the lock turn.
I didn't bother getting up. I remained sitting on the floor with my back against the door as it slowly opened.
Donna walked in carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water balanced neatly on top.
"Eliza," she said gently, her voice coated with false sympathy, "you must be starving. I brought you something to eat."
I didn't even look at her.
"Get out."
The words scraped painfully from my throat.
She let out a soft sigh, as though I were the one making things difficult, then placed the tray on the bedside table before settling herself comfortably on the edge of the bed. As she smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt—my skirt—I felt another wave of anger rise inside me.
"I'm not here to fight," she said sweetly. "I just want us to move forward. The sooner you accept reality, the easier this will be for everyone."
I slowly lifted my eyes to meet hers.
"Reality?" I repeated. "You mean the part where you're sleeping with my husband?"
"We love each other," she answered without the slightest hint of shame. "George and I understand one another in ways you never could. He needs someone who truly fits into his life. Someone who can give him everything he's been missing."
"You mean someone who can give him a son," I said bitterly. "The child I couldn't have because your precious George nearly had me killed."
She clicked her tongue and shook her head as though speaking to a stubborn child.
"You shouldn't think that way," she murmured. "Deep down, you've always known the truth. You were never the right woman for George. You were far too delicate."
"I was his wife."
"And you were unfaithful to him."
The innocence on her face made the lie even more revolting.
"You know that's not true," I snapped. "Those pictures were staged. You hired someone to follow me."
She shrugged, and for the first time since she'd entered the room, the carefully crafted mask slipped.
"What difference does it make?" she asked with a slow smile. "George believes every word I say. That's all that matters."
I stared at her in disbelief.
"You're a pathetic excuse for a woman."
Instead of taking offense, her smile only widened.
She rose from the bed and walked over until she was standing directly in front of me, looking down at me as though I were something disgusting stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
"You can insult me all you want," she said. "It won't change the fact that George chose me. You're nothing but a broken shell now. You can't give him children, you can't give him a future, and you certainly can't give him what he wants. Tell me, Eliza... why would any man hold on to something that's already broken when he has something new waiting for him?"
As she spoke, she rested a possessive hand against her stomach.
The gesture alone made my blood boil.
I forced myself to stay calm.
Slowly, I drew in one deep breath after another.
She wanted me to fall apart.
She wanted to watch me cry.
I refused to give her that satisfaction.
Ignoring the sharp pull of my stitches, I pushed myself to my feet and stood directly in front of her.
"You might be right," I said quietly.
For a split second, surprise flickered across her face.
"George may want you. He may even be sleeping with you."
I took one slow step closer until only inches separated us.
"But answer me this, Donna."
She frowned.
"If you're really the woman he wants, why am I the one he refuses to let go?"
Her expression stiffened.
"He locked me in this room because he won't allow me to leave," I continued. "He told me himself that he isn't giving me a divorce. Which means that as long as I'm alive..."
I tapped my own chest.
"...I'm still Mrs. George Caldwell."
Then I gently pressed a finger against hers.
"And you?"
A small smile curved across my lips.
"You're just the mistress."
I watched her jaw tighten.
"The woman he sneaks around with."
Her breathing became noticeably heavier.
"The one he hides behind closed doors."
I leaned in slightly.
"And when he eventually gets bored—which he always does—you'll discover just how replaceable you really are."
The color drained from her face before returning in an angry flush.
"You actually think a marriage certificate gives you power?" she hissed. "He despises you."
"No," I replied calmly. "He hates the fact that he can't control me anymore."
I held her gaze without blinking.
"And he clearly still needs something from me."
I smiled faintly.
"Otherwise, I would've died in that hospital."
Donna glared at me so fiercely I thought she might slap me.
Instead, she spun on her heel and marched toward the bedroom door.
"Enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Caldwell," she said with a mocking laugh. "I'll be spending the night with your husband."
The door slammed behind her.
A second later, the lock clicked back into place.
The hours that followed crawled by endlessly. Sleep never came. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard George's voice ordering the doctor to kill me or saw my baby's tiny heartbeat disappearing forever.
By the time the first rays of sunlight slipped through the curtains, I was exhausted.
The lock turned again.
This time it was George who walked inside.
He carried a cup of fresh coffee as though he were a loving husband bringing breakfast to his wife instead of the man who had imprisoned her.
"Morning, Eliza," he said casually, placing the mug on the bedside table.
I slowly sat up, pulling the blanket closer around me.
"George."
"You seem much calmer today," he observed while adjusting the cuff of his shirt. "Yesterday you were... emotional. It was becoming rather concerning."
"I wasn't exactly thinking clearly," I replied carefully, watching his reaction.
"I suppose that's understandable," he said with a dismissive shrug. "Losing a baby can affect a woman's emotional state."
His tone was so detached it made my stomach turn.
Then he glanced at his watch.
"Grandfather turns eighty tomorrow. The family is gathering for dinner, and naturally we'll both be there. We also need to bring him a proper gift."
He looked at me with his usual commanding expression.
"I'm heading into the city to the auction house. You're coming with me."
I blinked.
"I am?"
"Of course."
He sounded almost annoyed that I had asked.
"We need everyone to see that everything is fine between us. The last thing we need is more gossip."
After a brief pause, he added, "Donna will be joining us."
I felt my fingers curl tightly beneath the blanket.
"Donna's coming?"
"She has better taste than either of us when it comes to antiques," he replied matter-of-factly. "Besides, after what you did to her yesterday, you owe her an apology."
I looked at him in disbelief.
"You expect me to apologize to the woman you're having an affair with?"
His expression darkened.
"I expect you to apologize to my sister-in-law for attacking her."
The calm mask he'd been wearing slipped just enough for me to glimpse the anger underneath.
"If you can't manage something that simple," he continued, "then perhaps you really do belong in a psychiatric hospital."
He stopped talking and simply watched me.
He was waiting for the argument.
For the tears.
For me to scream about fairness.
But the woman who still believed life was fair had died in that hospital.
I lowered my eyes and drew a slow breath before forcing a small smile onto my face.
It felt unnatural.
Foreign.
But convincing enough.
"You're right," I said quietly.
George frowned.
"I am?"
I nodded.
"I wasn't myself yesterday. I let my grief get the better of me, and I shouldn't have pushed Donna."
I deliberately looked ashamed.
"She's family. I want to make things right."
George studied me closely, searching for any sign that I was lying.
Apparently, he found none.
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
"That's more like it."
He reached over and patted my head as though rewarding an obedient pet.
"I knew you'd come to your senses."
Then he reached into his pocket and tossed my phone onto the bed.
"Get dressed," he said. "We're leaving in an hour."
He paused at the doorway before adding one final warning.
"And don't make me regret giving that back."
With that, he walked out, leaving the bedroom door unlocked for the first time.
I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps before reaching for my phone.
My hands trembled—not because I was afraid, but because my pulse was racing.
The screen lit up.
There were dozens of missed calls.
My mother.
Friends I no longer knew whether I could trust.
I ignored every single notification.
There was only one message I cared about.
It came from a contact saved under a single name.
Nico.
I opened it.
I'll be seeing you soon, future wife.
Be ready.
