Chapter 4

Aliza's POV:

Dax's evasive answer hung in the air, a suffocating blanket woven from his indifference and my desperation. He didn' t deny the accusations, didn' t defend me. He never did. He just sat there, impassive, as if the pain tearing through me was an inconvenience, a minor bug in our carefully choreographed charade. The words "you knew what this marriage was" echoed in my head, each syllable a hammer blow against my fragile hope. My breath caught in my throat, a suffocating tightness.

"Do you even care, Dax?" I managed to whisper, my voice raw with anguish. My gaze, filled with unshed tears, pleaded with him. "About any of this? About losing our baby? About me?"

He finally looked at me, his eyes devoid of warmth, like chips of ice. "Of course, I care, Aliza," he said, his tone flat, a practiced response. "It's... unfortunate. But life moves on. We will try again. We have a legacy to continue." His gaze held no comfort, only a chilling pragmatism.

My heart felt like a hollowed-out shell, utterly devoid of feeling. Unfortunate. Legacy. Those were his words for the life that had flickered and died inside me. The stark contrast between his words and the deep, aching void in my soul was a chasm I couldn't bridge. I closed my eyes, a tear finally escaping, tracing a cold path down my cheek. The emptiness was absolute, crushing.

A sudden, insistent ring from the doorbell shattered the oppressive silence. Mrs. Evans, Dax' s assistant, bustled in, followed by a procession of interior designers, nannies-to-be, and child psychologists. They carried swatches, blueprints, and educational toys. My mother-in-law, Mrs. West Senior, swept in like a storm, her diamond-encrusted hand gesturing grandly.

"Dax, darling! Aliza, my dear!" she boomed, her voice echoing through the mansion. "We must finalize the nursery plans! Time is of the essence. And these experts are here to ensure our future grandchild has the very best of everything!"

Dax's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, quickly masked. He clearly hated his mother's intrusions, but he wouldn't dare challenge her. Not openly. He merely nodded, a strained smile on his lips.

"I need some air," he muttered, standing abruptly. He walked past me without a glance, heading for his study, leaving me adrift in the sudden chaos. Mrs. West Senior, noticing my pale face, rushed to my side. "Aliza, dear, are you alright? You look a bit peaked. This is all very exciting, isn't it?" She patted my hand, her concern genuine, but her bustling energy only made my head ache more. I managed a weak smile, nodding mutely, feeling like a doll, posed and silent.

Later that evening, after the flurry of activity had died down, I found myself wandering towards the study. I needed to escape the suffocating silence of my own thoughts, the empty nursery, the hollow promises. As I passed Dax' s study, I heard voices. His, low and intense. And his mother' s, sharp and accusatory. Curiosity, again, a dangerous siren, pulled me closer. I paused, just outside the closed door.

"You dare, Dax?" Mrs. West Senior's voice was a furious hiss. "After all these years? Frida Brennan again? The tabloids are having a field day! Are you trying to destroy everything I've built?"

Dax' s voice was equally cold, cutting. "Everything you've built? Mother, don' t play the innocent. You were the one who orchestrated all of this. You tore us apart. You lied, you manipulated, all to ensure I married into a 'suitable' family. Well, congratulations. You got your suitable family. Now leave Frida out of it."

My blood ran cold. Lies? Manipulated? What was he talking about? A knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

"Frida Brennan is a leech, Dax!" his mother snarled. "She always was! And I will not have her dragging our family name through the mud again. Not when Aliza is finally providing the heir we need."

"You won't touch her, Mother," Dax growled, his voice laced with a raw protectiveness I had never heard before. "This is my life. And Aliza..." He trailed off, his voice softening, then hardening again. "Aliza is my wife, yes. But Frida... Frida is the past you stole from me. Don't you dare hurt her again."

The words hit me with the force of a tidal wave, dragging me under. The past you stole from me. He still loved her. Not just loved her, but saw her as the great lost love, a victim of his mother's machinations. And me? I was just the "suitable" wife, the bearer of an heir.

My wedding day flashed before my eyes: the vows, the grand reception, the polite smiles. I remembered holding his hand, a foolish hope blossoming in my chest, believing that in time, I could win his heart, mend the wounds of his past. The irony was a bitter, burning taste. He had been mourning his lost love to Frida all along, while I, his wife, stood beside him, a convenient facade.

All of it. The marriage, the promises, even the pinky swear – it was all a lie. A grand, elaborate lie orchestrated by his mother, and perpetuated by his own blind devotion to a phantom love. My love, my hope, my entire future with him, evaporated into thin air. I was just a pawn in a game I hadn't even known I was playing. And I had lost. Completely.

I stumbled back, my legs suddenly weak, the silence of the hallway a stark contrast to the storm raging within me. I needed to get out. I needed to breathe. I turned and fled, not caring if anyone heard me.

The next morning, the world seemed to have drained of all color. I went to the biotech campus, my movements stiff, robotic. Dr. Aris greeted me, her expression serious. "Aliza, we need to talk. The board received some... directives from West Enterprises. They're insisting on a 'collaborative' approach to Project Chimera. Meaning, they're bringing in outside talent." She paused, her eyes softening. "And you, as the lead research assistant, will be working directly with them."

My blood ran cold. "Them?" I whispered, though I already knew.

Just then, the lab door swung open, and Frida Brennan sashayed in, a gleaming, untouched microscope positioned beside her, clearly a prop. She wore a pristine white lab coat, her hair perfectly coiffed, a dazzling smile for the cameras that, unfathomably, were still trailing her. "Aliza, darling! Ready to revolutionize the world of biotech with your new partner?" she chirped, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

Her partner. My stomach churned. Dax hadn't just inserted her into my project, he had made her my direct supervisor, my shadow. My gaze met Frida's. Her eyes held a triumphant glint, a silent declaration of war.

I ignored her outstretched hand, my voice level. "Dr. Aris, what are my duties for the day?"

Dr. Aris, clearly uncomfortable, cleared her throat. "Well, Frida is here to 'observe' and 'contribute creative ideas' to the project. You'll be guiding her through the initial phases of cell culture and genetic sequencing."

"Right." I turned to Frida, my face a mask of professional detachment. "Frida, we'll start with basic sterilization protocols. It's crucial for maintaining aseptic conditions." I handed her a pair of gloves, then pointed to a complex diagram on the whiteboard. "This is the schematic for the bioreactor. Please familiarize yourself with it." I dumped a stack of dense scientific papers onto her pristine workstation. "And these are foundational texts. You'll need to review them."

Frida's radiant smile faltered. Her eyes, which had sparkled with manufactured enthusiasm, now narrowed. She looked at the papers, then at the intricate diagram, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her face. "Oh, darling, isn't that a bit... much? I'm more of a 'big picture' person." She winked at the camera.

I ignored her, moving to the next workstation. "Let's begin with preparing the culture media." I demonstrated the precise measurements, the delicate handling of chemical reagents. Frida, clearly bored, tapped her fingers on the counter, then picked up a beaker, swirling it carelessly.

"Like this, Aliza?" she asked, her voice too loud, too close to a sensitive piece of equipment. She didn't wait for my answer, leaning in, her elbow knocking against a rack of delicate vials.

The vials clattered. A beaker of highly concentrated acid, used for pH adjustment, tipped precariously. "Frida, watch out!" I shouted, instinctively reaching for it. But it was too late. The beaker crashed to the floor, instantly corroding the tile. A loud shriek ripped through the air.

Frida stumbled back, clutching her arm. A small splash of the acid had landed on her sleeve, burning through the fabric and grazing her skin. She collapsed dramatically, screaming. "My arm! My beautiful arm! Aliza, you pushed me! You sabotaged me!"

The camera crew, ever present, rushed forward, capturing every angle of Frida's theatrical distress. Dr. Aris rushed over, her face pale with horror. The lab was in chaos.

Then, the doors burst open. Dax. He strode in, his eyes immediately locking onto Frida, who was now sobbing hysterically, cradling her arm. He didn't even glance at me, standing amidst the shattered glass and the corrosive fumes. He rushed to Frida, his face a mask of raw anguish.

"Frida! My God, what happened?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with a desperate concern that was so utterly foreign to me. He knelt beside her, gently examining her arm.

"Dax! She... she pushed me! She tried to hurt me! She's jealous!" Frida cried, burying her face in his chest, her voice muffled but theatrical enough for the hovering cameras.

Dax' s head snapped up. His eyes, fixed on me, were cold, hard, filled with a primal rage I had never witnessed. "Aliza," he snarled, his voice barely audible, yet vibrating with fury. "What have you done?"

My chest tightened. The injustice, the blatant favoritism, the utter disregard for my well-being, even as I was still reeling from my own loss – it was too much. I stood there, amidst the wreckage of the lab, and the wreckage of my life, utterly numb. The pain in my abdomen, a dull throb since the miscarriage, flared with a sudden, sharp intensity. I took a step back, my vision blurring again. He blamed me. Of course, he blamed me. For everything. For nothing. The realization was a bitter pill, a final, crushing blow.