Chapter 3

The nights were the hardest.

My room was next to Julian' s, and the walls were not thick enough.

I could hear everything.

The soft murmur of their voices, Clara' s high-pitched laughter, the creak of the bed.

I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my hands clenched into fists under the covers.

The sounds were a constant reminder of my displacement, a brutal confirmation of the new reality.

One night, the sounds changed.

Their voices grew louder, sharper.

I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable.

It was a fight.

The low rumble of Julian' s anger, the shrill, pleading notes of Clara' s voice.

Then, a door slammed, followed by heavy silence.

A small, perverse part of me felt a flicker of satisfaction.

Their perfect world wasn' t so perfect after all.

The next morning, I found Clara in the kitchen, sitting at the table with an untouched cup of tea.

She looked pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

When she saw me, she tried to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Good morning, Amelia," she said, her voice fragile.

I just nodded and went to the coffee machine.

I didn't want to talk to her.

But she was determined.

"We had a fight last night," she said suddenly.

"About you."

I stopped what I was doing and turned to face her.

"Me?"

"He feels guilty," she said, looking down at her hands.

"He thinks he hurt you. He was so worried because you were so... calm. He said it wasn't like you."

She looked up, her eyes filled with a strange mix of jealousy and desperation.

"I did it, you know. I planned it."

"Planned what?" I asked, my voice cold.

"The baby," she whispered, her eyes darting toward the door as if expecting Julian to appear.

"I knew it was the only way to make him choose me. He's always been obsessed with you, Amelia. I had to do something drastic to make him mine."

I stared at her, a wave of disgust washing over me.

This woman was not just a rival, she was a predator.

She seemed to take my silence as an opening.

She pulled up the sleeve of her robe, revealing a faint, bluish bruise on her upper arm.

"He gets so angry sometimes," she said, her voice trembling.

"He didn't mean to, but... he has a temper."

She began to tell me a story about her own life, a sad tale of a poor family and a desperate struggle for survival.

She painted herself as a victim, a girl who had to fight for every scrap of security.

She was trying to make me understand, to make me feel sorry for her.

"You have no idea what it's like," she said, tears welling in her eyes.

"To have nothing, to see someone like Julian and know he's your only chance at a real life. I love him, Amelia. Please, don't try to take him from me."

I listened, my face a blank mask.

I remembered my other life, how this same story had worked on me.

I had seen her as a fellow victim, and that pity had been my undoing.

But I was not that girl anymore.

The memory of my own tragic end was a shield around my heart.

"You're wasting your breath, Clara," I said, my voice cutting through her performance.

She stopped, her mouth slightly open in surprise.

"I told you already," I continued, looking her directly in the eye, my gaze unflinching.

"I don't love him anymore. You went to all this trouble for nothing. He's all yours."

I turned back to the coffee machine, my hands steady.

I could feel her staring at my back, her shock and confusion radiating across the room.

I had refused to play her game, and in doing so, I had taken away all her power.

The coffee maker hissed, filling the silent kitchen with the only sound.