The Price of Unwanted Love

I fell in love with Michael, my adoptive uncle, after he took me in following my mother' s death and my father' s arrest. He was my entire world for a decade.

Then, at my adoptive grandfather's funeral, paparazzi caught us, fabricating an illicit affair that drove my godmother, Linda, to suicide.

To "atone," Michael married me, turning our home into a gilded cage. By day, I copied scriptures; by night, I was a nameless body in darkness. He forced eighteen abortions, the last nearly killing me. His voice, cold as ice, dismissed my dying plea for our baby.

He hated me. He blamed me for Linda' s death, and I, in my final moments, believed him. It was all my fault.

I woke up. It was the day of my adoptive grandfather' s funeral again. Not this time. This time, I wouldn' t be his hindrance, or the cause of his true love' s demise. I would ensure Linda and Michael had their happy ending, even if it meant my own ruin.

Sarah Miller fell in love with her adoptive uncle, Michael Peterson. He was a decade older than her, a man who represented her entire world after she had lost everything.

She first met him at her mother's funeral. Sarah was a child, lost and terrified. Michael, her mother's younger brother, stood tall and somber, the sole heir to the sprawling family business now that his sister was gone.

Not long after, her father was arrested for embezzlement. The world collapsed. It was Michael who stepped in. He took her into his home, the grand Peterson mansion, and for ten years, he was her guardian, her only family. He cared for her meticulously, healing her wounded heart piece by piece. In that decade of quiet devotion, her gratitude blossomed into a deep, secret love.

Then came another funeral, this time for her adoptive grandfather. Michael was shattered. That night, lost in grief and drunk, he stumbled into her room by mistake. The air was thick with their shared pain of loss. She didn't push him away. She held him, comforting him through the long, dark night as a daughter would a father, as a woman would the man she loved.

The next morning, their shared exit was caught by the merciless flashes of paparazzi cameras. The headlines were sensational, screaming of an illicit affair between an uncle and his niece.

Sarah's godmother, Linda Davis, a woman who had always doted on Michael, saw the news. Her fragile emotions shattered. She took her own life.

From that day forward, Michael changed. He was a different man. He handled Linda' s funeral with a chilling quietness. Then, to the astonishment of the public, he arranged a lavish wedding and married Sarah.

The marriage was a gilded cage. By day, he forced her to copy millions of scriptures, a penance for Linda' s soul. By night, he demanded her presence in his bed, always in complete darkness, a nameless body to sate a nameless rage.

She got pregnant. He forced her to abort it at eight months.

This happened eighteen times.

On the eighteenth abortion, she hemorrhaged. Her life was draining away on the cold operating table. Through the haze of pain, she heard a sound-a faint, desperate cry. Her child. The sound pulled her back from the edge of unconsciousness.

"Please," she begged the doctor, her voice a thread. "Save my baby. Please."

The doctor, flustered, called Michael.

His voice came through the phone, cold as ice. "That has nothing to do with me. Ask the father."

The line went dead. In that instant, the operating room door burst open. Eighteen burly men stormed in. They fell upon her, their fists and feet a storm of violence.

In her final, agonizing moments, she understood. He hated her. He blamed her for Linda' s death. Overwhelming regret washed over her. It was all her fault.

Then, she woke up.

She was in her bedroom in the Peterson mansion. The morning sun streamed through the window. She looked at the calendar. It was the day of her adoptive grandfather' s funeral.

She got out of bed, her limbs trembling. Downstairs, she saw him. Michael stood by the window, his shoulders shaking with silent, gut-wrenching grief. A part of her, the part that had loved him for a decade, still ached to go to him.

But she stopped herself. Not again. This time, she would not be a hindrance. She would not be the cause of his true love's demise.

She went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water. Her hands were steady as she opened a small, folded paper and tipped the white powder into the glass. It dissolved instantly.

She walked to him and handed him the drink. "Uncle Michael, you should have some water."

He took it and drank it down without a thought, his eyes still lost in sorrow.

Then, Sarah took out her phone and called Linda Davis.

"Linda," she said, her voice clear and emotionless. "Uncle Michael is very upset. He's been drinking. I think you should come comfort him."

Linda' s voice was laced with suspicion. "Sarah? Why are you calling me? Why don't you comfort him? Don't you love him?"

"No," Sarah said, the word a clean cut. "I don't love him anymore."

She knew Linda wouldn't believe her. So she added the final piece. "And I've decided to make an announcement today. Grandfather's will states that I am to be the future Mrs. Peterson. But I'm going to refuse it. Publicly."

That was all it took. Linda, who had been positioning herself for that role for years, couldn't risk it.

"I'm on my way," Linda said, her voice tight.

Not long after, Linda's car screeched to a halt outside. Sarah opened the door for her, then stepped aside. Linda rushed past her, straight to Michael, who was now drowsy from the drug.

Sarah closed the door on them. She stood outside, listening. She could hear their intimate sounds, the soft murmurs and rustles. Each sound was a blade twisting in her chest.

She had escaped her fate. She had saved Linda. She had given Michael back his future.

But tears streamed down her face, hot and silent.

The next morning, Sarah came downstairs. Her face was pale and exhausted. Michael was already in the dining room, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked up, his eyes sharp. He seemed subtly annoyed by her composure, by her lack of despair.

"You're awake," he said. It wasn't a question.

He stood up and walked towards her, reaching out to touch her cheek. She flinched and took a step back.

His hand froze in mid-air. A flicker of something dark crossed his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said quietly.

He saw the faint marks on Linda' s neck as she came down the stairs, a triumphant, secretive smile on her face. Linda saw Sarah looking and quickly pulled her collar up.

"Michael, darling," Linda cooed, "I was just worried about you all night." She then turned to Sarah. "Oh, Sarah, you're up. I hope we didn't wake you."

Sarah said nothing.

Michael' s gaze was cold. He looked from Linda back to Sarah. He seemed to have already drawn his own conclusions.

He turned his full attention to Sarah, his voice dropping to a low command. "Move your things to the guest room today."

Sarah' s heart stopped.

"The master bedroom," he continued, his tone dismissive, "needs to be cleared out for Linda. Get all of your dirty things out of there."

Dirty things. That' s what her ten years of devotion had become. All the memories, all the carefully hoarded treasures, were just... dirty things.

The words shattered the last piece of her foolish heart.

She nodded silently.

Later that day, in the cold, empty fireplace of her old room, she burned everything. The first photo he' d ever given her. The scarf he' d bought her on her sixteenth birthday. The pen he' d used to sign her adoption papers. All of it turned to ash.

As the last ember died, she made a phone call.

"I need to arrange a disappearance," she said, her voice calm and final. "A fake death."

She would vanish from his life completely.

Linda moved into the master bedroom that very afternoon. Her expensive perfumes and designer clothes quickly filled the space that had once held Sarah' s simple belongings. It was a swift and brutal conquest.

At dinner, Linda sat in Sarah' s usual seat, right next to Michael.

"Michael, darling, try this," Linda said, placing a piece of fish on his plate. "I had the chef make it just the way you like."

Michael nodded, a faint smile on his lips. He then looked over at Sarah, who was picking at her food silently. His brow furrowed.

"Sarah, you' re too thin. Eat more."

His voice was laced with the familiar tone of authority he had always used with her. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. She remembered a time when he would scold her for skipping meals, his concern a warm blanket. Now, the same words felt like a reprimand, a reminder of her place. He was accusing her of being difficult in front of Linda.

She felt a lump form in her throat but forced herself to swallow. She put a large spoonful of rice into her mouth, her actions mechanical.

"That's better," he said, seemingly satisfied.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment too long, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. It was a look that made Linda' s smile tighten.

"Sarah is a big girl now, Michael," Linda said sweetly, placing a hand on his arm. "She knows how to take care of herself. We shouldn't treat her like a child anymore."

It was a clear dismissal, a way of marking her territory.

Sarah kept her head down, focusing on her plate. She had no desire to fight. She just wanted to leave. After she ate, she would go online and research how to repay a decade of kindness. She would calculate the cost of her food, her clothes, her education, and she would pay him back every single cent. Then, she would be free.

The next day, she went into town to run some errands. In a small café, she overheard two women at the next table whispering excitedly.

"Did you hear? Michael Peterson is finally with Linda Davis! It's all over the news."

"I knew it! They always looked so good together. That adopted niece was always in the way."

The words were careless, but they struck Sarah with the force of a physical blow. In her past life, the news had been about her and Michael, a scandal that had led to Linda's death. This time, it was a celebrated romance. It was what everyone wanted.

Her heart felt a familiar, hollow ache. This was for the best, she reminded herself. This was the future she had chosen for them.

The thought brought her a sliver of comfort, a cold, hard piece of solace in the wreckage of her emotions. She was close to escaping. She just had to hold on a little longer.

Her phone buzzed, startling her. It was Michael.

"Where are you?" his voice was urgent, clipped.

"I'm in town," she replied.

"Get to the central hospital. Now. Linda needs you."

The line went dead before she could ask why. A sense of dread washed over her. She hailed a cab, her mind racing.

At the hospital, a nurse rushed her to a private room. Linda was lying in bed, looking pale and weak. Michael stood beside her, his face a mask of worry.

"What happened?" Sarah asked.

"Linda needs a blood transfusion. She has a rare blood type," Michael said, his eyes fixed on Sarah. "You have the same type. You will donate."

It wasn't a request. It was an order.

Sarah stared at him, stunned into silence. He expected her to be a living blood bank for the woman who had taken her place.

But then she remembered. The ten years. The food, the shelter, the care. He had saved her from a life of destitution. What was a little blood compared to that? It was a debt she had to repay.

"Okay," she whispered.

She followed the nurse to another room. The needle went into her arm, and she watched as her blood flowed out, filling the bag. She felt dizzy and weak, but she didn't complain.

When it was over, she stumbled back to Linda' s room. Michael was holding Linda' s hand, murmuring soft words of comfort to her. He didn't even look up as Sarah entered. His entire world was focused on the woman in the bed.

Sarah' s vision started to blur. She leaned against the doorframe for support.

"Uncle Michael," she said, her voice barely audible. "I... I feel a little dizzy. Can I go home?"

He finally turned to look at her, his expression impatient. "Linda needs me here. Can't you go home by yourself?"

He reached into his pocket and threw his car keys onto the nearby table. "Take my car. And don't bother me unless it's an emergency."

The keys clattered on the wood, the sound echoing in the silent room. It was a dismissal. A final, cutting confirmation that she was no longer his concern.