Chapter 4

"Put that down."

The words came out cold and sharp. My voice didn't sound like my own.

Aiden' s mother and Leo both looked up, startled. Leo, a small, defiant copy of his father, tightened his grip on the porcelain ballerina.

"No," he said, his little chin jutting out. "Daddy said all the toys in this house are mine now."

"That is not a toy," I said, stepping forward. "Give it to me."

I reached for it. He saw the movement and, with a spiteful little grin, he yanked it back. In the same motion, he deliberately let it slip from his fingers.

It hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. The delicate ballerina shattered into a dozen pieces.

The world went silent. All I could see were the white shards scattered across the dark floor. A piece of her arm, a fragment of her tutu, her tiny, broken face staring up at me.

I fell to my knees, my hands hovering over the wreckage. I didn't register the child's cry of pain. I didn't see Aiden and Haven rushing down the stairs, drawn by the noise.

Leo had stumbled backward from the force of his own action and fallen, scraping his knee. He was wailing, pointing a pudgy finger at me.

"She pushed me! Auntie Lottie pushed me!" he shrieked.

"He's bleeding!" Haven cried, rushing to his side.

Aiden' s mother was right behind her. "Charlotte, how could you? He's just a child!"

Aiden stopped short, his eyes taking in the scene. Me on the floor, surrounded by broken porcelain. His son, crying in his mother's arms.

He looked at the broken pieces on the floor, a flicker of something-recognition? memory?-in his eyes.

Then he turned to Haven. "I told you to watch him. I told you not to let him touch her things." His voice was low and angry, but it was directed at Haven, not at me.

Haven burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Aiden. I just turned my back for a second." She scooped Leo into her arms and hurried away, casting a venomous look back at me.

Aiden knelt beside me. "Lottie, I'm sorry. He's a kid, he didn't know." He tried to touch my shoulder. I flinched away.

"It's just a thing," he said, his voice placating. "I'll buy you a hundred more. A thousand."

"You can't," I choked out, the words tearing at my throat. "It was my mother's."

He looked surprised. "Your mother's? This was...?"

"The music box," I whispered, picking up a tiny, sharp piece of porcelain. "It was hers."

A flicker of guilt crossed his face. "I'll have it fixed. I know the best restorers in the world. It will be like new, I promise."

Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious. "You think that's the point? He broke it, Aiden. He did it on purpose. And you... you just let him."

Aiden' s patience snapped. "What do you want me to do, Charlotte? He's five years old! You want me to hit him?"

"I want him to say he's sorry!"

"He's a child!" Aiden's voice rose, the familiar edge of rage creeping in. "Why are you being so difficult? You've never had any patience for Leo."

"Leo," I repeated, the name tasting like poison. I looked him straight in the eye. "You mean your son?"

The air crackled. The denial was instant, automatic. "He's not my son. We adopted him. I told you, his parents died in an accident."

"A tragic accident," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you, out of the goodness of your heart, decided to raise your adopted sister's orphaned child?"

His face hardened. "What are you implying? That I would lie to you?" He used his old trick, turning my suspicion back on me, making me the villain. "After everything I've done for you, you think I would betray you like that?"

His mother, who had been hovering nearby, chimed in. "Charlotte, Aiden loves you. He would never do such a thing. We took Leo in because it was the right thing to do. We are a family."

The two of them, standing there, their faces masks of feigned innocence, their lies a suffocating blanket. I felt a wave of nausea so strong I thought I was going to be sick right there on the marble floor.

I stopped crying. I carefully, methodically, began to gather the broken pieces of the ballerina, placing them one by one into my cupped hands. Each sharp edge was a fresh pain, a reminder of a memory now shattered beyond repair. My heart was that music box. And they had all taken turns breaking it.

"You're right," I said, my voice eerily calm. I looked up at him, a faint, cold smile on my lips. "Thank you for the gift of a son. I'm sure we'll be a very happy family."

I stood up, cradling the sharp fragments.

"But I won't accept this 'gift' you've given me," I said softly, my eyes locked on his. "I don't want him."

I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there amidst the ruins of my last memory.

I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I was leaving this house. Soon. And I would never come back.

I spent the next few days in my room, painstakingly gluing the music box back together. It was a futile effort. The cracks were visible, ugly scars on the delicate porcelain. It would never be the same. Neither would I.

One afternoon, Haven walked into my room without knocking. She didn't have her usual fragile, dependent look. Her face was a mask of cold ambition.

"I think it's time you left," she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. "I want you to sign the divorce papers and disappear."