Chapter 1

The invitation wasn't on paper.

It glowed on my phone screen, a social media post from Chloe Davis. She stood smiling in a pristine white art gallery, her arm linked through my husband Mark's. The caption read: "So proud to unveil my latest installation, 'Maternal Instincts.' A piece about the primal, sometimes destructive, nature of love. A huge thanks to my muse and patron, Mark Peterson."

Mark. My Mark. He was smiling too, a wide, proud smile I hadn't seen directed at me since before Leo was born.

The picture was a gut punch, but the name of the installation was what made the air leave my lungs. 'Maternal Instincts.' Chloe knew nothing about being a mother. She only knew about destroying one.

My son, Leo. My baby. He was gone. And here she was, using a word that belonged to me and my son, twisting it into something ugly for her art.

I got up from the couch, the blanket pooling around my feet. The house was silent, just like it always was now. The silence used to be a heavy blanket, now it was just empty space. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, my hand steady. I looked at my reflection in the dark window. A gaunt face, hollow eyes, hair that hadn't been brushed. I didn't recognize the woman staring back. She looked like a ghost.

I put the glass down, untouched.

I didn't bother changing out of my sweatpants and oversized t-shirt. I just grabbed my keys and walked out the door, the cold night air doing nothing to wake me from the fog I lived in. I drove to the address of the gallery listed in Chloe' s post. It was a trendy, industrial-looking building in a part of town I used to frequent for work meetings. Back when I was Sarah Miller, the architect. Not Sarah Miller, the grieving mother. The crazy wife.

The gallery was closed, but a single light was on inside. I saw her through the large plate-glass window, a silhouette moving around the main exhibition space. I knocked.

She turned, and a slow smile spread across her face when she saw it was me. She unlocked the door and opened it just enough to talk.

"Sarah. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her voice was smooth, like honey mixed with poison. She was wearing a silk dress that probably cost more than my car.

"I wanted to see it," I said, my own voice sounding rough and unused. "Your... art."

Chloe's smile widened. She enjoyed this. She enjoyed my pain. "Of course. A private viewing. For Mark's wife. Come in."

She led me to the center of the room. There, on a stark white pedestal, was her masterpiece. It was a collection of small, gray, abstract shapes, arranged in a chaotic yet deliberate pattern. They were cemented together, forming a jagged, broken circle. It was cold and ugly, and it made my stomach turn.

"It's about the pieces of a life," Chloe said, her voice a theatrical whisper. "How a mother's love can shatter, and what's left behind. Mark found it incredibly moving."

She looked at me then, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

"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 was a calculated strike. She was telling me I had not only been replaced as a wife and a lover, but as an artist, as a person with a soul. My world, which was already cracked, began to splinter. I looked at the ugly gray sculpture, at this monument to my failure, and then at the workbench in the corner of the gallery. It was littered with tools. Chisels, hammers, and a long, sharp sculpting knife.

I walked towards it. My movements felt slow, detached, like I was watching someone else.

"What are you doing?" Chloe asked, a flicker of annoyance in her voice.

I didn't answer. I picked up the sculpting knife. The metal was cold and heavy in my hand. It felt real. Solid. For the first time in months, I felt something other than the hollow ache of grief. I felt a sharp, clear purpose.

I turned back to her, and for the first time, I saw a flash of fear in Chloe' s perfect, manicured expression.

I didn't look at her, though. I looked at my own arm. The pale skin, the blue veins just beneath the surface. I pressed the tip of the knife against my wrist. I just wanted the noise in my head to stop. The noise of Chloe's voice, of Mark's laughter in the photo, of the crushing silence in Leo's nursery.

I pushed down.

A thin line of red appeared, bright and shocking against my skin. It didn' t hurt as much as I thought it would. It was just a release. A deep, shuddering exhale.

As the blood began to well up and drip onto the pristine white floor of Chloe's gallery, I felt a strange sense of peace. Finally, I thought. Maybe now it will all just stop.