I refused to be a victim.
I refused to let them see me break.
I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand, smearing the blood from where the IV had been. I stood up. My legs were shaking, but my spine was steel.
I walked down the hallway. The lights hummed, buzzing like angry flies. I found his room.
It was quiet now. The doctors were gone. The machines were still there, blinking, breathing for a boy who was no longer there.
I looked at him.
He looked like he was sleeping. His skin was pale, translucent like wax. There was a bandage on his chest. A thick, white square where they had cut him open and taken the only thing that mattered.
I placed my hand on his forehead. It was cold.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you, Alexus."
I reached for the machine. The ventilator hissed, a rhythmic, mechanical mockery of life.
I found the button.
Click.
The hissing stopped. The room fell into a silence so heavy it felt like it would crush my ribs.
"I hope you are happy now, baby," I choked out. "Mommy loves you. Mommy will always love you."
I didn't let Anthony bury him. I didn't let him put on a show for the cameras, pretending to be the grieving father over a casket he helped fill.
I went to the morgue myself. I screamed at the director until he processed the paperwork. I signed my name until my fingers cramped.
Two hours later, I walked out into the rain.
I wasn't holding a hand anymore. I was holding a box.
A heavy, marble urn. Cold against my chest.
"Let's go home, Alexus," I whispered to the ash.
The taxi ride was a blur of gray sky and wet pavement.
When I arrived at the mansion, I expected silence. I expected the house to be mourning, the curtains drawn, the air stale with grief.
Instead, I heard music.
Soft jazz drifting from the open windows. And laughter.
Laughter.
I stood in the rain, clutching the urn, water soaking through my thin hospital gown. My son was dead. I was holding his ashes. And someone was laughing in my house.
I pushed the front door open.
The warmth of the foyer hit me. The scent of expensive cologne and lilies—Alicia’s favorite flower—filled the air.
They were in the living room.
Anthony was sitting on the sofa, a glass of scotch in his hand. His tie was loosened. He looked relaxed.
Alicia was beside him, pouring tea. She looked radiant. Her hair was perfect, her dress a soft pastel yellow that made her look like spring.
They looked like a family. A happy, perfect family.
Anthony looked up. His smile vanished.
"Amber?" He frowned, setting his glass down. "Why are you back?"
I stood there, dripping wet, shivering. "I live here, Anthony."
"I thought you’d be at the hospital," he said, his voice annoyed. "Watching over the body. Or making a scene."
He didn't even know. He didn't care enough to check.
"I'm tired," I said, my voice hollow. I held the urn tighter, shielding it from their gaze. I didn't want them to see it. I didn't want their dirty eyes on my son.
"Well, you shouldn't be here," Anthony snapped. "You look like a ghost. It's depressing."
He took a sip of his drink.
"It’s your fault, you know," he added casually. "If you hadn't taken him to that park, we wouldn't be in this mess. You ruined everything."
I bit the inside of my cheek. I tasted iron.
"Don't be harsh on her, Anthony," Alicia chimed in. Her voice was like syrup—sweet, sticky, and sickening.
She stood up and walked toward me, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
"She needs to rest," Alicia said, reaching out to touch my arm. I flinched away.
She didn't look offended. She just smiled that pitying, condescending smile.
"That is why I brought Leo here," she said softly. "To help with your recovery. The doctors say exposure to children can help with the grieving process. It’s better this way."
My stomach turned.
I didn't say a word. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I would scream until the windows shattered.
I turned around and walked toward the stairs.
"Amber!" Anthony called out. "Don't you dare ignore Alicia when she's trying to help you!"
I kept walking.
Step by step. The urn felt heavier with every stair.
I reached the hallway. The door to Alexus’s room was open.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I walked to the doorway.
The room was bright. The dinosaur wallpaper was still there. The bed was made.
And there, sitting in the middle of the floor, was a boy.
Leo.
He looked healthy. His cheeks were pink. He was laughing.
He was holding Alexus’s favorite toy car. The red one with the missing wheel.
"Vroom! Vroom!" Leo shouted, crashing the car into the leg of the bed.
My breath caught in my throat.
That was Alexus’s car. That was Alexus’s room. That was Alexus’s heart beating in that chest.
"What are you doing?" I asked. My voice was trembling.
Leo looked up. He had Anthony’s eyes.
"Playing," he said simply. "Auntie Amber, look! Fast car!"
He smiled. An innocent, toothy smile.
I gripped the doorframe.
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to snatch the toy from his hands and throw him out. I wanted to tell him he was a thief.
But he was just a boy. He was five years old. He didn't know his mother was a snake. He didn't know his father was a monster.
He was just a child.
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. I stepped into the room.
"Leo," I started, trying to keep my voice steady. "You shouldn't be in here..."
Then I saw it.
A black shape moving on his arm.
A spider. Large, hairy, crawling up his pale skin toward his neck.
Leo didn't notice it. He was too busy crashing the car.
Instinct took over. I didn't think. I just moved.
"Hold still!" I gasped.
I rushed forward, raising my hand to swat the spider away. I needed to kill it before it bit him.
I raised my hand high, my palm open.
"Get off!" I yelled at the spider.
Leo looked up, his eyes widening in terror as he saw my hand raised above him.
"Mommy!" he screamed.
"What are you doing?!"
A shriek tore through the air from the doorway.
I froze.
"Help!" Alicia screamed, her voice echoing through the entire house. "Anthony! Help! She's killing my son!"
