Chapter 4

The next evening, Ethan came home with a small, elegant Tiffany' s box.

"A little something, for being so brave," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Inside was a stunning diamond necklace, "The North Star" pendant. The irony was a physical blow.

I forced a weak smile, my mind racing. I had to play along, for now.

The following morning, the doorbell rang.

It was Chloe, flanked by several large suitcases.

She smiled, a predatory glint in her eyes. "Ethan hired me, darling. As your live-in private physician. He's so worried about your 'fragile' post-partum state, and of course, to help you with the grief."

She was wearing an identical North Star necklace, hers sparkling more brightly, or so it seemed.

"I'll take the master suite, of course," she announced, breezing past me as if she owned the place. "It has the best light, and I need to be readily available for you."

Ethan arrived then, feigning surprise, then concern.

"Sarah, honey, I know this is sudden, but Chloe is the best. She saved your life. It's just until you're stronger."

He sent me placating texts throughout the day, even as Chloe systematically dismantled my life within my own home.

My clothes were moved from the master closet to a guest room. My personal items on the vanity were replaced with hers.

The household staff, who had always been coolly polite, now openly fawned over Chloe, their whispers following me.

"Gold-digger." "Her parents' deaths were karma." "Mr. Henderson deserves someone like Dr. Rinsen."

My isolation was complete.

That night, the pain from my breast milk, a constant, agonizing reminder of my lost child, was unbearable.

As I clutched a cold compress to my chest, I heard them.

Chloe's voice, a seductive murmur from the master bedroom, "Oh Ethan, she looks at me with such hatred. It' s so hard, after all I did for her..."

Then Ethan's deeper tones, soothing, then succumbing. The sounds of their intimacy were a brutal soundtrack to my despair.

Later, Ethan brought me a glass of warm milk, a nightly ritual he' d started after the "tragedy."

"To help you sleep, my love," he' d said.

Tonight, I pretended to drink it, then poured it down the sink when he left.

I had to know. I had already started to suspect.

The next day, I managed to get a sample of the milk to a private lab, using some of the emergency cash I' d stashed away years ago.

The results came back quickly: laced with strong sedatives and a drug known to cause cardiac irregularities with long-term use, something that could also prevent future conception.

He wasn't just controlling me, he was slowly poisoning me, ensuring I could never carry another child, never truly be his wife.

Because I wasn't. The sham marriage, the fake license. I had no legal standing, no rights.

I was a prisoner in a beautiful, terrifying cage.