Chapter 2

Francesca POV:

"I am not crazy!" I screamed, the words echoing off the padded walls of the room. "I am not crazy! They lied!"

The nurse, a woman with kind but weary eyes, offered a practiced, placid smile. "Of course, dear. We understand." Her voice was soft, but it held no real comfort.

"I need to speak to Antonio. There's been a terrible misunderstanding." Desperation clawed at my throat. "He'll clear all this up."

"Your husband is very concerned for your well-being," she replied, picking up a chart. "He wants you to get all the rest and care you need."

The diagnosis was Postpartum Psychosis. A neat little label. A convenient story.

I was trapped in a narrative I didn't write, a role I never auditioned for. Antonio's narrative. Harlow's narrative.

They brought me pills, small white tablets, twice a day. "To help you rest," they said. "To clear your mind."

At first, I took them, numb and compliant. Then the fog began to settle, blurring the edges of my grief, dulling the sharp pain of betrayal. It felt like my mind was being slowly, systematically erased.

I started to hide the pills, tucking them under my tongue, spitting them out when no one was looking, flushing them down the toilet. I needed my mind. I needed to remember.

They found out. Of course, they did. A stern-faced doctor, his prescription pad held like a weapon, stood over my bed.

"Francesca, we've noticed some resistance to treatment," he said, his voice clipped. "We're going to have to explore more... direct methods."

His words were a cold hand, clenching around my heart. Direct methods. I knew what that meant. My body tensed, fear a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind raced, trying to find an escape.

"No! Please! You can't!"" My voice cracked, raw with terror. "Antonio! Please, tell Antonio! He wouldn't let this happen!"

The nurse, who had been silently observing, stepped forward. "Your husband has explicitly approved your treatment plan, Mrs. Moore. He believes this is what's best for you."

Best for me. The words were a mockery.

They strapped me down. The cold leather cuffs bit into my wrists and ankles. A metal band was placed over my temples. The air crackled with a low hum.

"Antonio!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face. "Antonio, please! Don't do this!"

"He's not coming, dear," the nurse said, her voice still unnervingly calm. "Just relax."

A jolt. White hot pain ripped through my skull, my muscles convulsing violently. My body arched, every nerve screaming in agony. It was a brutal, terrifying shock.

Then another. And another. Each one a fresh hell, tearing at the fabric of my being, until my world dissolved into a blinding, throbbing blackness.

I woke up, my head pounding, my body sore and heavy, like I'd been run over by a truck. The fluorescent lights hummed, harsh and unwavering.

Harlow stood by my bed, Antonio beside her. She looked radiant, glowing, her pregnancy blooming beautifully beneath a silk dress. I felt like a discarded rag doll next to her.

Antonio looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. "How are you feeling, Francesca?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of genuine concern.

He wasn't here to check on me. He was here for something else. I braced myself.

"We have some papers here for you to sign," he said, holding out a folder. "A temporary separation agreement. For the good of the business. And the baby."

The papers fluttered in his hand, pristine white, legal jargon filling the pages. A contract for my freedom. A contract for my silence.

"You want me to sign away my life," I whispered, my throat raw. "So you can have yours."

"It's a chance for a fresh start, Francesca," he said, his voice smooth, practiced. "A clean slate. You need time to heal. To recover."

"And you need a wife who isn't 'crazy' and a baby who isn't 'difficult'," I finished for him, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

His jaw tightened. "Sign the papers, Francesca. Or you stay here. Indefinitely."

I searched his eyes, desperately trying to find the man I loved, the man who had loved me. But there was nothing there but cold, calculating ambition.

My body ached, my mind was fractured. I was exhausted, beaten down. I picked up the pen, my hand trembling, and scrawled my name. It felt like signing my own death warrant.

Antonio smiled then, a small, triumphant curve of his lips. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, a chillingly empty gesture. "Good girl," he murmured. "See? Everything will be fine."

They released me an hour later. The sunlight felt alien, too bright, too loud. I stumbled out, disoriented, back to the house that no longer felt like home.

I woke up to a crash. A sickening crunch, followed by the clatter of glass. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I scrambled out of bed, my muscles protesting, and ran downstairs.

The grand hallway, once a gallery of our shared life, was now a disaster zone. The wall where our wedding photos, framed awards, and Shannon's tiny footprints once hung was bare. Shattered glass lay everywhere, glinting ominously in the electric light.

In their place, hung a massive, gleaming portrait of Antonio and Harlow, both smiling, her hand resting on her swollen stomach. It was a grotesque, triumphant display.

Two burly men, Antonio's security, were prying a heavy wooden panel from the wall. Behind it, a secret compartment, built to house my most treasured possessions. Now, it was empty.

"What are you doing?!" I shrieked, my voice cracking. "Stop it! What have you done with my things?"

Antonio stepped into the hallway, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Cleaning house, Francesca. We need space for the new additions. You understand, don't you?"

"My memories! My daughter's memories! You're erasing her!" I lunged for the men, trying to stop them, my hands flailing.

"Shannon is gone, Francesca," Antonio said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It' s time to move on. For all of us." He gestured, and one of the men casually tossed a small, wooden music box into a waiting trash bag. Shannon's music box.

"No!" I screamed, tears blinding me. I threw myself at the bag, tearing it open, desperate to retrieve it. My fingers scraped against the rough plastic, a sharp pain as my nail broke.

Harlow glided into the hallway, her expression a mix of pity and malice. "Oh, Francesca, don't be so dramatic. It's just old junk." She nudged the bag with her foot.

My head snapped up. I saw red. Pure, unadulterated rage. I launched myself at her again, a primal scream tearing from my throat.

Harlow let out a piercing shriek, stumbling backward, clutching her stomach. "Antonio! She's trying to hurt the baby!"

Antonio was on me in a flash, his hand connecting with my face with brutal force. My head snapped sideways, a sickening crack echoing in my ears. I tasted blood, and the world tilted.

He didn't even look at me as I crumpled to the floor. His gaze was fixed on Harlow, his face etched with frantic concern. "Are you alright, my love? Is the baby okay?"

From my vantage point, on the cold marble floor, I saw it. The contents of the trash bag, scattered around me. Among the broken glass and discarded items, a single, delicate baby mobile lay crushed, its tiny plastic animals twisted and broken. The mobile I had hung above Shannon' s crib. The ultimate act of desecration.

Antonio knelt beside Harlow, stroking her hair. "She's unstable, Francesca. A danger to herself, and to others. Especially to our new family." He glanced at the broken mobile, a look of cold indifference on his face. "Sentimental nonsense. It's all just junk."

"No!" I cried, my voice a broken whisper. "It's all I have left! He's trying to erase her!"

I pushed myself up, my body screaming in protest, and stumbled out of the house, away from the wreckage of my life, away from the ghosts and the monsters.

Outside, on the pristine paved driveway, where Antonio's luxury car usually sat, a small, charred pile of ashes smoldered. My family's recipe book. The one passed down through generations. My grandmother's handwriting. Shannon's first food purees noted in the margins. It was all gone.

They weren't just erasing Shannon. They were erasing me. Every trace of my existence, every memory, every connection to who I was. I was being wiped clean. And in that moment, something shifted inside me. The grief, the despair, it hardened into a cold, diamond-sharp resolve.