Chapter 3

A sickeningly sweet smell a block away from the hospital reminded me of the flower shop next to Ethan's ward. I had a sudden urge to see Jessica. I needed to see her face, to hear her voice, now that I knew the truth. I found her in the hospital' s pristine, sunlit cafeteria, laughing on the phone with someone. She looked radiant, rested. She glowed with the relief of a mother whose child was safe.

When she saw me, her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she composed herself into a mask of pity.

"Sarah. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

I just stared at her, my silence a heavy weight between us.

"I heard about the new baby," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I' m so happy for you. It' s what Lily would have wanted."

The casual mention of my dead daughter' s name, from her lips, felt like a desecration.

"How' s Ethan?" I asked, my own voice flat and empty.

A genuine, brilliant smile lit up her face. "He' s wonderful! The doctors are calling it a miracle. The new kidney... it' s like it was made for him. He' ll be able to live a normal life now."

She paused, then added, as if it were an afterthought, "It' s such a tragedy what happened to Lily. But I guess... in a way... she' s a hero. Her loss saved my son."

Her words didn' t just hurt, they infuriated me. She wasn' t just a beneficiary of my daughter' s murder, she was a willing accomplice, celebrating her son' s life on the grave of mine.

That night, I confronted Mark. Not with the evidence, not with accusations. I was smarter than that now. I confronted him with a question.

"I saw Jessica today," I said, as we sat in the living room, the silence stretching between us.

He looked up from his tablet. "Oh? How is she?"

"Happy," I said. "She said Lily' s loss saved her son."

Mark' s expression hardened. The mask of the grieving father slipped, and for a moment, I saw the ruthless CEO underneath.

"Well, in a way, it' s true," he said, his voice cold and detached. "A tragedy for us, but a miracle for her. You have to look at the bigger picture, Sarah. The family is what matters."

"The family?" I repeated, the word tasting like poison. "Lily was our family. You told me you would protect her."

"And I did!" he snapped, his voice rising. The pretense was cracking. "I protected the family' s future! Ethan is a Miller. He carries the name. Lily... Lily was a girl. This new baby, hopefully a boy, will be our heir. Ethan is secure, and we will have our own legacy. It' s a win-win."

The cruelty of his words, the casual dismissal of our daughter' s life as a transactional loss for a greater good, left me breathless. He wasn' t just a monster, he was proud of it. He saw his actions as logical, necessary.

"You' re not making any sense," I whispered, forcing myself to look confused, hurt. I couldn' t let him see the cold rage solidifying in my heart. I had to keep playing my part, just like him.

I feigned a wave of dizziness, pressing a hand to my forehead. "I... I think I need to lie down. The pregnancy..."

His demeanor changed instantly. The cold CEO vanished, and the concerned husband returned.

"Of course, of course," he said, rushing to my side to help me up. "You need to rest. For the baby."

As he helped me up the stairs, my mind was a whirlwind of ice and fire. I had to stay calm. I had to survive. For now, I was a vessel, a container for his "insurance policy." I had to protect it, not for him, but for my own plan.

As I lay in bed, feigning sleep, the image of Lily' s body at the morgue flashed in my mind. The dirt, the stillness, the little birthmark that confirmed the nightmare was real. That image, once a source of unbearable pain, now became my fuel. It was the whetstone on which I would sharpen my revenge.

Mark sat on the edge of the bed, stroking my arm. His touch felt like a spider crawling on my skin.

"You know, I was thinking," he said softly, his voice full of the fake tenderness I now despised. "We should go for a full check-up tomorrow. A comprehensive one. Make sure the baby is developing perfectly. Check the tissue compatibility, blood type, everything. Just to be safe."

He was talking about my baby, our unborn child, as if it were a product on an assembly line, ready for quality control. He wanted to make sure his spare parts were viable.

"Okay, Mark," I whispered into the pillow, my eyes squeezed shut.

The next day, he took me to a private, high-tech clinic, one of those exclusive places that catered to the ultra-rich. The air was sterile, the staff moved with quiet, expensive efficiency.

I was led into a room filled with gleaming machinery. A technician, a woman with a cold, professional smile, explained the procedure. It was an amniocentesis. A long, thin needle would be inserted through my abdomen into my womb to draw a sample of amniotic fluid.

"It' s just a precaution," Mark said, squeezing my hand. "To make sure our baby is as healthy as can be."

I knew what it was. It wasn' t about checking for health. It was about cataloging. It was an inventory of my child' s biological assets.

I lay on the table, my shirt pulled up, my belly exposed. The technician cleaned the area with a cold antiseptic solution. I stared at the ceiling, my body rigid. Mark held my hand, but his grip felt less like comfort and more like a restraint.

The needle went in. It was a sharp, invasive pressure, a violation that went far beyond the physical. With every second that needle was inside me, I felt the truth of my situation more acutely. I was not a mother-to-be in his eyes. I was a broodmare. And the life inside me was not a child. It was a harvest.