Chapter 4

Months passed in the dim, dusty wing.

The seasons changed outside my boarded-up windows, but inside, time was a stagnant pool.

My body swelled with the forced pregnancy.

Ethan' s visits became more regular, focused solely on the baby' s development.

He' d bring bland, nutrient-rich food, watching me eat it to ensure "Angel" was nourished.

My own well-being was an afterthought.

I developed sores from lying in the old, sagging bed for so long.

My hair grew lank and dull. My skin was pale, almost translucent.

I was a ghost haunting my own life.

The isolation was a slow torture.

Sometimes, I would talk to Noah, whispering to the empty air, telling him how much I missed him, how sorry I was.

It was the only comfort I had.

Olivia' s visits were less frequent now, but each one was designed to inflict maximum pain.

She' d describe the nursery she was preparing for "Angel," filled with sunlight and expensive toys.

"Ethan is so excited," she' d say, her eyes glittering. "He's finally going to have the family he deserves."

She never mentioned Daisy. It was as if her own daughter had been erased, replaced by this new, "perfect" child.

The baby inside me kicked and turned. I felt nothing but a deep, visceral hatred for it.

It was a symbol of everything I had lost, everything that had been taken from me.

Ethan installed a camera in the room. "For your safety," he said.

I knew it was to watch me, to ensure I didn't try to harm myself or the pregnancy again.

I was under constant surveillance.

The old doctor came periodically. He never spoke to me, only to Ethan, discussing "the subject's" progress.

I was no longer Sarah. I was "the subject." The incubator.

The loneliness was a crushing weight.

Sometimes, I would scream, just to hear a sound other than my own breathing or the frantic thumping of the baby's heart on the monitor.

No one ever came when I screamed.

One day, Ethan was late with my food.

Hours passed. The hunger gnawed at me.

When he finally arrived, his face was drawn.

"There was a problem at the bottling plant," he muttered, not looking at me.

The Cole family bottling plant, the source of their local influence, was struggling. I' d heard whispers before my imprisonment.

He set the tray down, his movements mechanical.

He seemed older, more careworn than before.

But there was no softness in his eyes for me.

Only for the bulge of my stomach.

"Angel is strong," he said, placing his hand on my belly.

I flinched away from his touch.

His eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Sarah."

The baby was all that mattered. My suffering was irrelevant.

My hatred for him, for Olivia, for this child, festered in the silence and darkness.