Chapter 4

Danae Hodges POV:

The world became a cacophony of voices, a swirling vortex of accusations, pleas, and threats. Clay's sobs, Bertha's shrill condemnations, my parents' desperate entreaties to stay, to not ruin "our lives." It all pressed in, suffocating me, stealing the air from my lungs. My chest tightened, a vice-like grip squeezing the last bit of fight out of me.

"Stop!" I screamed, the single word ripping through my throat, raw and desperate. "Just stop!"

The sound of my own voice, ragged and broken, seemed to shock them into silence. The sudden quiet was even more deafening than the noise. I felt a dizzying wave wash over me. The floor seemed to tilt, the walls closing in. My vision blurred, the room spinning faster and faster until everything went black.

I woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical machinery. A hospital room. The white walls, the crisp sheets, the IV drip in my arm – it was all too familiar. A nurse, her face kind but tired, checked my vitals. She explained I'd collapsed from "extreme emotional distress and exhaustion." They'd kept me overnight for observation.

Alone in the quiet room, a cold, hard resolve began to form within me. I reached for my phone, which surprisingly was still in my pocket. The screen lit up, a digital window into the world I was trying to escape.

And there it was. Clay's Instagram, newly updated. A picture of Charity, laughing, leaning against him, her hand casually resting on his arm. The caption read: "So grateful for true friends who stand by you through tough times. Thank you, C."

My stomach clenched. "True friends." He was still with her. Still parading her, even after everything. Even after hitting me.

I scrolled further. A picture of them at a local cafe, sipping coffee. Tagged: "Morning ritual with my favorite person." Another post from Charity's public profile: a selfie, her lips pursed in a mocking pout. The caption: "Some people just can't take a hint. Guess I'll have to spell it out louder." Clay had liked it. He had even commented with a single red heart emoji.

The doctor came in then, a young woman with serious eyes. "Ms. Hodges, your physical health is stable, but your emotional state is concerning. We've arranged for a consultation with a psychiatrist." She spoke gently, her voice full of professional concern. "You've been through a lot, and it's clear you're under immense stress."

My phone buzzed again. It was my mother. A long, rambling text. "Danae, your father and I are so worried. Clay is distraught. He said he'll do anything to make it up to you. Please, don't throw away your marriage. He's such a good provider. Think about your future. We can't help you financially if you leave him. You know that. It's just not fair to us."

Then, a text from Bertha, Clay's mother. "Danae, my son is a saint. He married you, a damaged woman, and stood by you. Don't ruin our family's reputation. And about children... my family has a long line of sons. It's important for the bloodline. They say children born under a full moon are especially blessed. You wouldn't want to jeopardize that, would you?"

Another buzz. A text from Clay. "I miss you, baby. I'm so sorry. I love you. Please come home. I need you."

I stared at the messages, a cold, empty feeling spreading through me. They were all playing their parts in this charade, pushing me further into the abyss.

Then, a message from an unknown number. My breath hitched. It was a video. I clicked on it, my finger trembling.

It was Charity. Her face filled the screen, an evil smile playing on her lips. "He never loved you, Danae. He just tolerated you because you were a convenient project. Someone to 'save.' But he always came back to me. Every single time. And those names you love so much? Charis and Donny? They're for our children. The children we're going to have. Not yours. You're barren, remember? A broken toy. And now, you're just a sad little joke."

The words hit me like a physical blow, worse than Clay's slap, worse than Bertha's. My head swam. My vision blurred again, but this time, it wasn't collapsing. It was a cold, calculated clarity. The tears, for once, didn' t come. There was nothing left to cry. The well had run dry.

I picked up my phone, my fingers steady now. I typed a reply to Clay. "Okay. I'm coming home."

I remembered the early days with Clay, when the world seemed bright and full of promise. He was the one who pulled me out of my deepest depression. He saw something in me no one else did. I had thought he was my dream, my savior. In our first apartment, he' d painted a mural of a sprawling oak tree, its branches reaching towards the sky. He said it was our family tree, growing strong and resilient. It was so romantic. I loved it.

I waited for him that night, but he never came. The hours ticked by, slow and agonizing. I knew he wouldn't. He was with Charity. He was always with Charity.

Then, another message from Charity. "Tick-tock, Danae. Still waiting for your knight in shining armor? He's a little busy right now. With me. Get over it. He doesn't want you. Nobody does."

My heart felt like a dead stone in my chest. Numbness. That's all there was now. A profound, aching numbness. I looked out the hospital window. It was high up, the city lights twinkling far below. I could see the giant old oak tree in the hospital courtyard, its branches spreading wide, a symbol of strength and life.

I walked to the edge of the roof, the cold night air biting at my exposed skin. My phone buzzed in my hand. Clay. I answered it, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"Clay," I said into the phone, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "Look up."

He paused, then I heard a rustling sound. "Danae? What are you doing? Where are you?"

"Just look up," I repeated, my voice steady, calm. "You wanted to see me, didn't you? Well, here I am."

I heard his intake of breath, a sharp gasp of pure terror. "Danae! No! Don't you dare!" His voice was a strangled shout. "Danae! I love you! Don't do this! Please!"

His voice was a desperate, primal scream, echoing across the night sky. But I didn't hear it. My focus was on the oak tree below, its sturdy branches reaching up, promising a softer landing. My eyes were wide open, fixed on the future I was creating for myself. This wasn't an end. This was a rebellion. This was my escape.

I let go.