Introduction

The invitation glowed on my phone, Chloe Davis beaming next to my husband, Mark.

Her caption hit me like a punch: "So proud to unveil my latest installation, 'Maternal Instincts.' A huge thanks to my muse and patron, Mark Peterson."

Mark. My Mark. Smiling a smile I hadn' t seen directed at me since before Leo was born.

'Maternal Instincts.' Chloe knew nothing about being a mother. She only knew about destroying one.

My son, Leo. My baby. He was gone.

And there she was, twisting a word that belonged to me and my son, for her ugly art.

I drove to her gallery, the cold night air doing nothing to wake me from the fog I lived in.

She opened the door, a slow smile spreading across her face when she saw me. "Sarah. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her voice was smooth, like honey mixed with poison.

Inside, her "masterpiece" stood on a stark white pedestal: a collection of jagged, broken gray shapes, cemented together. It was cold and ugly.

"It's about the pieces of a life," Chloe purred, theatrical. "How a mother's love can shatter... Mark found it incredibly moving."

Then, the final blow: "He says I capture raw emotion so much better than you ever did. He said your work was always too... perfect. Too clean. No soul."

Every word a calculated strike. Not just as a wife, but as an artist, as a person with a soul.

My world, already cracked, began to splinter.

I saw the sculpting knife on her workbench. Cold and heavy in my hand, it felt real. Solid. For the first time in months, I felt a sharp, clear purpose.

I pressed the tip against my wrist. I just wanted the noise in my head to stop.

Pushed down.

A thin line of red appeared, bright and shocking. It didn' t hurt. It was just a release.

Then, Chloe' s shriek: "Oh my god! What are you doing? You're getting blood on the floor!"

She rushed, not to me, but to grab a rag. "Are you insane? This is a polished concrete floor! It's going to stain!"

Her words barely registered as the world tilted and went fuzzy.

The last thing I heard was her calling Mark: "Your wife is making a scene."

I woke in a hospital room. Mark stood over me, his face a mask of fury.

"What the hell was that, Sarah? Humiliating me in front of Chloe? At her big opening? Do you have any idea how that makes me look?"

He spoke in a low hiss, silencing my attempts to explain.

"Just don't. I can't deal with this right now. I have to go back and help Chloe clean up your mess."

He turned to leave as a doctor, kind-looking, walked in.

"Mr. Peterson? I'm Dr. Albright. I need to speak with you about your wife."

Mark sighed, a long, suffering sound. "She's fine. Dramatic. Needs a sedative or something."

Dr. Albright' s voice was firm. "Your wife is not being dramatic, Mr. Peterson. She is suffering from severe postpartum depression, complicated by profound grief. She is a danger to herself."

A flood of relief washed over me. Someone saw it. Someone believed me.

But Mark just laughed, a cold, ugly sound. "Postpartum depression? That's ridiculous. The baby's been gone for months. This is just Sarah being Sarah. She's seeking attention. She needs to grow up."

He looked at me with contempt. "A psychiatric hold? Don't be absurd. I'm her husband. I'm taking her home."

Dr. Albright stood her ground. "Mr. Peterson, I am advising you in the strongest possible terms against that. Your wife admitted she wanted to die. Taking her home without professional intervention would be medically negligent."

Mark' s face hardened. He leaned into the doctor, his voice a menacing whisper. "Are you calling me a negligent husband? My wife is emotional. She says things she doesn't mean. I know how to handle her. We're leaving."

He turned on me. "Get your things. We're going. You've caused enough trouble for one night."

The flicker of hope died. To him, my pain was an inconvenience. An embarrassment.

I was utterly alone with it.

Then, the door creaked open. Emily.

My best friend. She rushed to me, holding me tight.

A raw sob tore from my throat, full of months of pain and fear.

"Oh, Sarah," she murmured, her voice thick. "Mark's assistant called him... Chloe... she posted something. I knew."

"It's not your fault," I choked out. "It's me. I'm broken, Em."

"No!" she said fiercely. "You're not broken. You're sick. I've seen this coming. Ever since Leo..."

The mention of his name hung heavy.

Ever since Leo was born, I' d been sinking. The sleepless nights, his crying, mine, the overwhelming feeling. A darkness. A fog that wouldn't lift.

Mark waved me off. "All new moms are tired."

Then Leo died. SIDS, they said. The fog became a suffocating blackness. A gaping hole Mark filled with Chloe.

"I'm not living, Em," I whispered, looking at my bandaged wrist. "I'm just... waiting. I don't know how to do this anymore."

"Then we'll figure it out," Emily squeezed my hand. "You're not alone. I won't let you be."

But as Mark' s car horn honked impatiently outside, I wondered if even her love would be enough. My prison warden was waiting.

He thought he could lock me away in the perfect glass house. But he couldn't imprison a woman who had already decided she was going to die. A woman with a plan.