Chapter 3

The days that followed were a living nightmare. Liam moved Chloe into the apartment permanently, and I was relegated to the guest room, a prisoner in my own home while I finalized my move. I watched him dote on her, his every action a painful echo of the affection he once showed me.

He would gently rub her swollen belly, his expression soft and full of wonder. He' d bring her breakfast in bed, cutting the crusts off her toast just the way she liked it. He' d run her a bath, making sure the temperature was perfect. It was a bitter sight, a constant, twisting reminder of everything I had lost. He had done all those things for me once, but now, that tender care was directed at another woman, the woman carrying his heir.

One morning, Liam saw the deep, purple bruise on my arm, a lingering mark from where Chloe had fallen near me.

"Your arm," he said, a flicker of something like concern in his eyes. "Does it still hurt?"

Before I could answer, Chloe called out from the living room. "Liam, honey! Can you get me a glass of water? And maybe some of those crackers? The baby's making me nauseous again."

Instantly, his attention shifted. The fleeting concern for me vanished, replaced by an urgent need to cater to her. "Of course, sweetheart," he called back, rushing to the kitchen. The moment was gone. I didn't exist anymore.

The ultimate humiliation came a few days later. Chloe was craving a specific dish: lemon-herb roasted chicken. It was the first meal I had ever cooked for Liam, a dish that had become our special occasion tradition.

"Olivia, you make the best roasted chicken," Liam said, approaching me with a strained, apologetic look. "Chloe's been asking for it all day. Would you mind making it for her? For the baby?"

The request was a slap in the face. He was asking me to serve my memories, my traditions, on a platter to the woman who had destroyed my life. The bitterness rose in my throat, choking me. But I saw the pleading in his eyes, the desperate attempt to keep the peace in his new, complicated world. For the sake of my own quiet departure, I agreed.

"Fine," I said, my voice flat.

I spent the afternoon in the kitchen, my hands moving through the familiar motions automatically. I remembered teaching Liam how to chop the herbs, his clumsy fingers fumbling with the knife, our laughter filling the small space. Now, the kitchen was silent, the memory a ghost mocking me. I served the chicken, watching as Chloe devoured it with relish, occasionally feeding a bite to Liam, who accepted it with a grateful smile. It was a grotesque parody of a happy family dinner.

The next day, two large men in black suits appeared at the apartment door. Liam' s father stood behind them, his face a cold, hard mask.

"She' s here," Liam' s father said, his voice like ice. "Take her."

Before I could react, the men seized my arms. I looked at Liam, my eyes wide with confusion and fear. "Liam, what is this? What' s happening?"

He wouldn't meet my gaze. He just stared at a spot on the wall behind me.

"Chloe had a scare last night," his father said coldly. "The doctor said she had some minor bleeding. It was the chicken. You tried to poison her. You tried to poison my grandson."

The accusation was insane. I had eaten the same chicken. "That' s ridiculous! I would never..."

"Silence!" his father bellowed. "You are a barren, jealous woman. You will not threaten my family' s lineage."

They dragged me out of the apartment. I saw Chloe standing in the doorway, a faint-smirk on her face. Liam still hadn' t moved, still hadn't looked at me. He was letting this happen.

They took me to a private clinic owned by the Miller family. Liam was there, his face pale and drawn.

"Tell me you didn' t do this, Olivia," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. But there was no conviction in it. There was only doubt.

"Of course I didn' t!" I cried, my voice raw with desperation. "Liam, you have to believe me! She' s lying!"

"Lying?" he shot back, his fear and confusion twisting into anger. "The doctor confirmed she had a complication! After she ate your food! What am I supposed to believe?"

The argument escalated, his voice growing louder, his accusations more wild. He was a cornered animal, lashing out.

Just then, his parents swept into the room. His mother walked straight up to me, her eyes burning with hatred, and slapped me hard across the face. The sound echoed in the sterile room.

"You wicked woman," she hissed.

His father followed. "She needs to be taught a lesson," he said, his voice low and menacing. He nodded to the men who had brought me here. "Take her to the ancestral hall. She will kneel on the cold stones until she learns her place."

They dragged me away again. I looked back one last time at my husband. He stood there, silent and motionless, his face a blank canvas. He watched them take me, his eyes empty. He did nothing. He said nothing. He had chosen them. He had chosen the baby. And he had sacrificed me completely.