The Wife He Tried to Erase

My doctor told me I had two weeks before a cerebral hematoma erased all my memories. I called my husband, Griffith, my rock, desperate for his comfort. He hung up on me.

A text message followed: Come to the Aurora Gallery. Now. There, I was drugged, stripped naked, and put on a rotating pedestal as a live art installation for his mistress, Beryl. He watched from the crowd, smiling, and kissed her as the audience applauded my humiliation.

When I discovered I was pregnant, he hid the sonogram. Then, for Beryl's next "art concept," he had his men drag me to a hospital and forced me to abort our child. He put our baby's body on display in the gallery.

After I was kidnapped by men Beryl hired, I called him one last time, begging for my life as they held me over a cliff. He was with her. "Stop this nonsense," he said, annoyed, before hanging up. They cut the rope, and I plunged into the icy sea.

But I didn't die. I woke up in Florence with no memory, a new name, and a kind man named Conner who nursed me back to health.

Two years later, I returned to New York on Conner's arm, ready to attend our engagement party. And I saw him in the crowd, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Adelia?" he whispered, his face a mask of hope and horror. "Is that really you?"

Chapter 1

Adelia POV:

It happened again. The ninety-seventh time. I stood outside our apartment door, my bag heavy on my shoulder, keys nowhere to be found. A cold wave washed over me. Not just from the New York winter, but from the creeping fear that had become my constant companion. I closed my eyes, trying to picture them, to remember where I' d left them. Nothing. Just a blank space where the memory should be.

My doctor, Dr. Albright, sat across from me, his face etched with a kindness that only deepened my dread. The MRI scans glowed on the screen behind him, a blurry map of my brain. He pointed to a small, dark area. "Adelia," he started, his voice gentle but firm, "the cerebral hematoma is larger than we initially thought."

My breath hitched. Cerebral hematoma. A fancy name for a bruise on my brain. From a fall, he' d said, when I was ten. A fall I couldn't even remember.

"What does that mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My hands were clammy.

He took a deep breath. "It means, Adelia, that the pressure is increasing. And based on its current rate of expansion, you have about two weeks before you lose all your memories." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Completely. Everything."

Memory loss. Two weeks. My entire life, gone. The world tilted. The room spun. I felt a cold, metallic taste in my mouth. Panic clawed at my throat. My love, my life with Griffith, our home, our dreams - all of it would vanish.

I stumbled out of his office, the sterile white walls blurring into a tunnel. My phone felt like a lead weight in my hand. I needed Griffith. I needed his voice, his calm. He was my rock, my anchor in this swirling chaos. I dialed his number, my fingers shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.

One ring. Two. Three.

"Adelia," his voice was clipped, impatient. "Is everything alright? I'm in the middle of something important."

"Griffith," I choked out, tears already streaming down my face. "It's... it's bad. The doctor said..."

A click. The line went dead. He hung up. My heart twisted, a sharp, searing pain. He always did this when he was busy. I knew it, but it still hurt. A text message popped up immediately.

Come to the Aurora Gallery. Now. Don' t be late. Important meeting.

No "Are you okay?" No "What's wrong?" Just an order. A command. But it had to be important. He wouldn' t just dismiss me like that otherwise. He loved me. He had to. I had to believe that. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to steady my breathing. I had to go to him. He needed me. Or maybe, I needed him to need me.

The taxi sped through the city, a blur of yellow and red. My mind raced. What kind of meeting was so urgent he couldn't spare a minute? Was he in trouble? My heart pounded with a mix of fear and a desperate need to be by his side. He was my entire world. The thought of losing him, of losing us, was unbearable.

The Aurora Gallery was a sleek, modern building, all glass and steel, stark against the brick facades of Soho. I hurried inside, scanning the bustling crowd. Art installations, some abstract, some jarring, lined the walls. But no Griffith. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from him.

Back room. Hurry.

I pushed through the throng, my eyes darting, searching. The back of the gallery was darker, quieter. A heavy velvet curtain beckoned. I stepped behind it, pulling it closed. The air was still. Too still. A strange, sweet scent filled my nostrils. Before I could process it, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind. A sharp prick in my neck.

Darkness.

I woke up to a searing headache and the cold, smooth feel of marble beneath my skin. My eyes fluttered open. Blurry figures. A soft murmur of voices. I tried to move but my limbs felt heavy, disconnected. My mind was foggy, a thick cloud dulling my senses. Then I felt it. The cold, empty space where my clothes should be.

A gasp escaped my lips, but it was weak, raspy. My body felt alien. A sudden, uncontrollable warmth spread between my legs, a horrifying gush. I was incontinent. Publicly. My cheeks burned. Shame, hot and consuming, swept through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing for the darkness again.

But the voices grew louder. Whispers, then murmurs, then outright snickers. I forced my eyes open again. I was on a pedestal. A rotating platform. A spotlight blinded me. Faces. Hundreds of them. They stared, their eyes raking over my exposed body. Some smirked. Others pointed. Disgust. Judgment. It was all there, etched on their faces. I was an object. A spectacle.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" A woman's voice, full of theatrical flourish, cut through the din.

I turned my head with immense effort. A tall, striking woman with sharp features and a malicious glint in her eyes stood beside the pedestal. Beryl Aguirre. The infamous performance artist. She wore a tight, avant-garde dress that made her look like a predator.

"The raw, unadulterated reality of the female form," Beryl continued, gesturing towards me with a manicured hand. "Stripped bare of societal artifice. The complete vulnerability. The 'Postpartum Reality' installation is a commentary on the true nature of existence. The body, untamed. The mind, untamed."

The crowd applauded. Laughter mixed with impressed murmurs. "Brilliant!" someone shouted. "So provocative!"

My mind screamed. This wasn't me. This wasn't art. This was a nightmare. I tried to speak, to tell them, to explain. But my tongue felt thick, my lips numb. The drug. It held me captive, a silent, helpless prisoner in my own skin.

Then I saw him. Griffith. He stood near the back, a proud smile on his face. Not looking at me with concern, but with a strange, almost proprietorial approval at Beryl. My heart plummeted. He was here. He knew. And he was approving.

Beryl, basking in the applause, turned to Griffith, a triumphant smile on her face. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh, a harsh, brittle sound. He kissed her cheek. A long, lingering kiss. My world shattered into a million pieces.

I loved him. I loved him with every fiber of my being. He was my first love, my only family since going through the foster system. He had promised me forever. He had promised to protect me. What was happening? Why was he doing this?

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time blurred. The cold marble, the burning shame, the constant turning of the platform, the endless stares. Every muscle in my body ached. The drug kept me in a haze, barely conscious, barely moving, utterly helpless. It was a torture I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

Finally, the spotlight faded. The crowd began to disperse. The drug's grip slowly loosened. My head cleared, just enough to register the hushed tones coming from a darkened corner of the gallery. Griffith' s voice.

"Honestly, Beryl, she was perfect. So utterly... pathetic. Exactly what you needed for 'Postpartum Reality.' Her orphan background, her desperation for acceptance. It just radiates that raw, animalistic vulnerability you crave." Griffith' s voice dripped with disdain, a tone I had never heard directed at me.

My blood ran cold. He. He said that. About me.

"Oh, Griffith, darling," Beryl purred. "You always understand my vision. She's so utterly low-class. Her suffering is truly a gift to high art."

My breath hitched. He had arranged this. He had drugged me. He had stripped me naked and put me on display. My husband. My Griffith.

"She's a stepping stone, Beryl. Nothing more," Griffith said, his voice hard. "An unfortunate necessity for my early career. But you... you are my equal. My true partner. Her blandness, her simple-mindedness, it's all just a backdrop to your brilliance."

A sharp pain, like a knife twisting in my gut, made me gasp. He called me bland. Simple-minded. A stepping stone. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms.

"Are you going to divorce her, then?" Beryl asked, a hint of impatience in her voice.

Griffith sighed dramatically. "Eventually. But not yet. She still has her uses. Besides, I owe her something for all those years. Call it... compensation. But know this, Beryl. My heart, my future... it's all yours. She means nothing to me anymore."

My world collapsed. It wasn't just a betrayal. It was an annihilation. Every loving word, every tender touch, every shared dream – it was all a lie. His love wasn't cheap. It was nonexistent. It had been all along. He had never loved me. He had used me.

A cold, clear resolve settled in my heart. The tears stopped. The pain was still there, a dull ache, but it was no longer consuming. It was a catalyst. I would take back my love. Every single shred of it. It wasn't his to discard.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers steady now. I booked the first flight out of New York. Florence, Italy. A new beginning. Then, I opened a blank note. Goodbye, Griffith. Goodbye to the woman I was. Goodbye to the love I thought we had.

My hand found the neurologist' s report in my purse. The one that detailed my fading memories. Two weeks. Not a tragedy anymore. A blessing. A chance to erase him from my mind, just as he had erased me from his heart. I tore the paper into tiny pieces, letting them fall like snow around my feet. A symbolic burial of my past.

Just then, Griffith stepped out of the shadows, buttoning his shirt. He spotted me, still on the pedestal, now fully awake. His eyes narrowed. "Adelia? What are you doing here?" He paused, noticing my composed demeanor, the lack of tears. "And why are you dressed like that?"

Before I could answer, Beryl' s voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the air. "Griffith! Come back here, darling! We have so much to celebrate!"

He glanced at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then back at Beryl. He didn't hesitate. He turned and walked away, not looking back. His footsteps echoed, fading into the distance. He was hers. Completely.

I watched him go, the last vestiges of hope flickering out like candles in a storm. He was gone. The man I loved was dead. All that was left was a stranger, a cruel, calculating monster. My heart, once a fragile glass, was now a block of ice.

Adelia POV:

The city lights blurred through the taxi window as I directed the driver to our apartment. I was cold, inside and out. The rain started, a steady drumming against the glass, mirroring the dull ache in my head. Each drop felt like a tiny hammer blow against my skull. I didn't care. I just wanted to be home, if that place could still be called home.

Griffith wasn't there. The apartment was dark, silent, and empty. A hollow space that echoed the hollowness in my chest. I wandered through the rooms, the place that had once been our sanctuary now felt like a gilded cage. The emotional and physical trauma of the night finally caught up to me. My body thrummed with fever, a raging fire beneath my skin. I collapsed onto the cold kitchen floor, the world spinning into hazy darkness.

Dreams came, fragmented and cruel. I was ten years old again, lost and alone in the foster system. Then Griffith appeared, a beacon of light. He was young, his eyes full of promise. "I'll never leave you, Adelia," he whispered, holding my hand tightly. "We'll build our own family. A home where you'll always be safe." His words, once a comfort, now felt like venom. The dream shifted. I was on the pedestal again, naked, exposed, and he was laughing, his arm around Beryl. The memory of his betrayal was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, stealing my breath.

I woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat, my throat raw. The fever still burned, but the memories of his promise, juxtaposed with the brutal reality, were far more painful. The room was still empty. He hadn't come home. Not that I expected him to.

The doorbell rang, a jarring sound in the quiet apartment. My stomach clenched. Who could it be? I dragged myself to the door, my legs wobbling. Through the peephole, I saw her. Beryl. Dressed in a vibrant red coat, a wide, predatory smile on her face. My blood ran cold.

I didn't open the door. But she let herself in, a key presumably given to her by Griffith. Her eyes scanned the apartment, a look of proprietorial satisfaction on her face. "Hello, darling," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I hope you don't mind. Griffith gave me a key. Said I might need it to fetch some... inspiration."

She walked past me, as if I were invisible, and headed straight for the living room. She pulled out her phone, tapping at the screen. "Oh, and speaking of inspiration," she said, turning the screen towards me.

It was my naked body. My moment of ultimate humiliation. Publicized. On social media.

A choked cry escaped my lips. My stomach churned. The shame from the gallery rushed back, a sickening wave. How could he? How could they?

Beryl giggled, a malicious sound. "Quite the stir you caused, my dear. 'Postpartum Reality' is trending. And you, Adelia, are the unwilling muse. Griffith is so proud."

I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. My hands trembled, my vision blurring. "He... he let you do this?" My voice was raw, unfamiliar.

"Oh, much more than that," Beryl said, her smile widening. She scrolled through her phone again. "He provided the source material."

She held up the phone. Intimate photos. Photos of me, in our bedroom, in private moments. The ones I thought were just for Griffith. The ones I thought were safe with him. My breath caught in my throat. This was a new low. A fresh wound. He had exposed my most vulnerable self to the world.

"No!" I screamed, lunging for the phone. "Give me that!"

Beryl, surprisingly agile, sidestepped me. She stumbled, a theatrical fall, dropping the phone to the floor. At that exact moment, the front door swung open. Griffith stood there, his face a mask of concern. He rushed to Beryl's side, helping her up.

"Beryl, my love! Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with tenderness. Then he turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury. "Adelia! What have you done?!"

"What have I done?" My voice cracked. "What about what you've done? These photos, Griffith! How could you?!"

He glanced at the phone lying on the floor, then back at me. His expression hardened. "It's art, Adelia. High art. You wouldn't understand. And Beryl was just showing me how much traction it's getting. You attacked her."

My stomach clenched again. "Art?" I spat the word out like poison. "You gave her my private photos? To humiliate me? To expose me to the entire internet?"

"Don't be so dramatic," he said, rolling his eyes. "It's all part of the performance. A little publicity never hurt anyone."

My hand flew up, fueled by a searing, blinding anger. The slap echoed through the silent apartment. His head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek.

"How dare you?!" I shrieked, the tears finally coming, hot and furious. "You are a monster, Griffith Wyatt! A despicable, heartless monster! You don't deserve her art! You don't deserve anything!"

His eyes, once full of a love I now knew was fake, turned cold. Deadly cold. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. "You dare insult Beryl?" he snarled. "You dare lay a hand on me?"

He pushed me, hard. I stumbled backward, hitting the wall. Pain shot through my back. Before I could recover, he grabbed my arm again, dragging me towards a small, dark closet in the hallway. My childhood trauma, my fear of enclosed spaces, flashed through my mind. No. Not there. Anywhere but there.

"Griffith, no! Please! Not the closet! You know I can't... I can't breathe in there!" My voice was a desperate plea.

He ignored me, his face devoid of emotion. "You need to learn some respect, Adelia. This will teach you to control your 'low-class' outbursts." He shoved me inside, the darkness engulfing me instantly.

The door slammed shut, plunging me into absolute blackness. The air grew thick, suffocating. Panic seized me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. I clawed at the door, screaming, begging. "Griffith! Please! Let me out! I can't breathe! I'm scared!"

No response. Only the echoing silence of my own terror. I banged my fists against the wooden door until my knuckles bled. The darkness pressed in, a physical weight. My childhood fear, long dormant, roared to life. I was ten again, trapped, alone. Griffith. He knew. He knew about my claustrophobia. He was doing this on purpose. The man who promised to keep me safe was now my tormentor.

A hazy image flickered in my mind. Young Griffith, holding my hand, calming my childish fears. "I'll always be here, Adelia. I'll never let anything hurt you." The memory twisted into a cruel mockery.

Just before consciousness slipped away, a wave of nausea hit me. Then, nothing.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic. A hospital. My head throbbed. Griffith stood by my bed, his face pale. But his eyes weren't on me. They were on Beryl, who was sitting gracefully in a chair by the window.

"Are you alright, Beryl?" he asked, his voice soft.

Beryl smiled weakly. "Just a little shaken, darling. Her hysteria was quite... intense."

He finally looked at me, his eyes devoid of warmth. "Adelia, you really need to control yourself. Attacking Beryl like that? What were you thinking?"

"Attacking her?" I whispered, my throat dry. "She displayed my naked photos. You locked me in that closet."

He scoffed. "You were being irrational. And the photos are art. Get over it."

I looked at him, truly looked at him. The man I had loved was gone. Replaced by this cruel stranger. A profound calm settled over me. My love for him, once a roaring fire, was now a cold, dead ash. I would never love him again.

He pulled out his phone, his face lighting up. "Good news, though! Beryl's 'Postpartum Reality' has been a massive success. The gallery is extending the exhibit. And look at this." He showed me the screen. My naked body, on a giant billboard. Public. Forever.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't bear to look. I turned my head away, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to acknowledge the shame he had inflicted.

"Adelia, look at me!" he demanded.

I kept my eyes closed. He let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Be stubborn. But don't think this changes anything." He stormed out, presumably to Beryl.

I opened my eyes, tears silently tracing paths down my temples. I was alone. Utterly, completely alone.

My body was weak, but my resolve was firm. I needed to get out. My feet hit the cold hospital floor. I needed to go somewhere I felt safe. Somewhere I had once called home. The orphanage. They would understand. They would help me.

The old wooden doors of the orphanage stood before me, familiar and comforting. I remembered running through these halls, finding solace in the kind arms of Mrs. Albright, the director. She was like a mother to me. I knocked, my heart filled with a fragile hope.

Mrs. Albright opened the door, her smile warm until her eyes met mine. Her smile faltered. Then, her gaze dropped to my stomach, then back up to my face. Her eyes hardened. "Adelia Figueroa," she said, her voice stern. "I can't believe it's you. I've seen the news."

"Mrs. Albright, I can explain," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "It wasn't what it seemed. I was-"

She cut me off, her face a mask of disappointment. "Explain? There's nothing to explain. Your lewd images are plastered all over the internet. You've brought shame upon yourself, and shame upon this institution. Our donors are appalled. How could you, Adelia? After all we taught you about dignity and self-respect."

"But I didn't-"

"No," she said, her voice cold. "I can't have someone like you contaminating the children here. You're a disgrace. An embarrassment." She slammed the door shut in my face.

My "home." My last refuge. Gone. Just like Griffith's love. Just like my dignity. It was all gone. And it was all because of him. The man who promised me a family had stripped me of everything, even the memory of a home. My heart hardened further. There was nothing left to lose.

Adelia POV:

The chill of the New York night seeped into my bones as I returned to the empty apartment. The front door, once a symbol of refuge, now felt like an entrance to a tomb. I pulled out the Florence ticket, its smooth surface a tangible promise of escape. My suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed. I needed to leave. Now. Before I completely shattered.

As I began to fold a sweater, a sudden wave of nausea hit me. My stomach churned, a familiar sensation over the past few weeks that I had dismissed as stress. I stumbled to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. When the spasm passed, I reached for a bottle of mouthwash, and my hand brushed against something small and white tucked behind the mirror. A paper.

Curiosity, a fragile thing in my broken state, made me pull it out. It was a sonogram. My name, Adelia Figueroa, was printed at the top. And then, a date. Weeks ago. Before the gallery. Before the closet. Before everything. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was pregnant.

And then I saw it. Griffith' s familiar scrawl on the bottom. "Future heir. Keep safe." He knew. He had known all along. He had hidden it from me. The man who had shown me such cruelty, the man who had abandoned me, was the father of my child. My baby. My last connection to a family, to a future.

A tiny spark ignited in the dark recesses of my soul. This child. My child. It was the only tangible thing left from the wreckage of my life. The only person who would truly be my blood. I would protect this life. I would leave. And I would make a new life for us, far away from him.

I was packing more carefully now, my movements imbued with a new purpose. The nausea returned, but this time, I welcomed it. It was a sign of life, a promise.

The front door opened. Griffith. My breath caught in my throat. His face was unreadable, a strange mix of regret and determination.

"Adelia," he said, his voice softer than I'd heard it in days.

"You knew," I stated, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I held up the sonogram. "You knew I was pregnant."

His eyes widened slightly, then he sighed. "Yes. I did."

"And you hid it from me?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "While you were parading your mistress, while you were humiliating me, while you were locking me in a closet-you knew I was carrying your child?"

He walked closer, his expression shifting to one of carefully constructed concern. "Adelia, I was trying to protect you. There's so much stress right now. Beryl's exhibit. My company's image. A baby would... complicate things."

"Complicate things?" I snarled, the last remnants of my composure crumbling. "This isn't 'things,' Griffith! This is our child! Your child!"

He took another step, his hand reaching out. I recoiled. "Adelia, listen to me. We need to be rational about this." He paused, then dropped the bombshell. "We need to... take it out."

My world stopped. The air left my lungs. "What?" I whispered, afraid I hadn't heard him correctly.

"The baby," he elaborated, his voice chillingly calm. "We need to terminate the pregnancy."

My blood ran cold. "Are you insane?!" I shrieked, clutching my stomach. "This is our baby! I won't do it!"

He tried to take my hand, his grip firm. "Adelia, it's for the best. Really. Beryl... she has a new concept. An installation about 'new life.' She wants to use... the fetus. She says you're her 'muse of primal reality,' and this would be the ultimate artistic expression. It will elevate her career, and our status."

The words hit me like a physical blow. He wanted to use our child. Our unborn child. As art. For his mistress. My vision swam. He wasn't just a monster. He was a fiend.

"You're disgusting!" I screamed, tears of pure horror streaming down my face. "You want to kill our baby for her 'art'? You want to put our child's body on display?!"

His face hardened. "Don't be so dramatic. We can have another one later. When things are less chaotic. Now, stop being difficult. My men are waiting." He signaled towards the door. Two burly men in black suits stepped into the apartment.

"No! Get away from me!" I scrambled backward, terror seizing me. "Griffith, please! Don't do this! Don't hurt our baby!" I pleaded, my voice raw, desperate. My hands instinctively covered my belly, a futile shield.

He watched, stony-faced, as the men grabbed my arms, dragging me towards the door. I fought, kicked, screamed. "Please! My baby! Our baby! Griffith, remember your promise! Remember when we talked about names! Please, don't let them do this!"

His face remained impassive. "It's for the best, Adelia. For everyone. You'll thank me later."

I was dragged out of the apartment, down the silent hallway, and into a waiting car. The hospital again. The sterile smell, the cold, clinical efficiency. I was on a gurney, strapped down. White light. Instruments. Cold hands. I fought, but my strength was gone. The drugs from the gallery still lingered in my system, leaving me weak.

A doctor's face, impassive. A nurse, avoiding my eyes. My vision blurred. I remembered Griffith's hand on my stomach, months ago, whispering about a nursery, about little shoes. He had promised me a family. He had promised me everything.

Then, a sharp, piercing pain. A tearing. A hollow emptiness. It was gone. My baby. My only hope. Ripped away. The world faded to black.

I woke up in my bed. The apartment was still. My stomach was flat. Empty. The crushing realization hit me like a physical blow. The child was gone. My body felt like a ghost, a hollow vessel. My eyes were dry. There were no more tears left. Only a cold, burning emptiness where my heart used to be.

I had to leave. Now. There was nothing left here. No love, no home, no family. I got up, my movements slow, deliberate. I grabbed my passport, my wallet. And the Florence ticket.

I walked out of the apartment for the last time, not bothering to lock the door. Let him have it. It meant nothing to me anymore. I hailed a cab, the rain still falling, a relentless curtain.

As the cab sped towards the airport, I turned on the news, a morbid curiosity guiding my hand. The headline blazed across the screen: "Beryl Aguirre's Controversial 'New Life' Installation Sparks Debate." My stomach clenched. I knew. I knew what I would see.

There it was. A glass case. A tiny, lifeless form suspended within it. My child. My baby. On display. For "art." A wave of pure, unadulterated agony washed over me. I wanted to scream, to rage, to smash the screen. But I couldn't. I could only close my eyes, wishing, praying, that this was all a nightmare. A horrible, twisted nightmare.

The cab screeched to a halt. A black SUV blocked our path. Men in black suits. My blood ran cold. This couldn't be happening. Not again. A hand clamped over my mouth. A cloth, sweet and dizzying, pressed against my nose.

Darkness.

I woke up in a brightly lit room, my wrists and ankles bound to a chair. The air was thick with the smell of cheap disinfectant. A single spotlight glared down on me, making me squint. And there he was. Griffith. Standing in the shadows, his face grim.

"Adelia," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You've caused quite a mess."

"A mess?" My voice was weak, but my defiance was strong. "You murdered our child, Griffith! You displayed its body! And you call me a mess?"

He stepped into the light, his face pale. "The media is in a frenzy. Beryl's 'New Life' is being called barbaric. Even her family is distancing themselves. We need damage control. You're going to go on live television. You're going to tell them it was a stillbirth. A tragic accident. You're going to praise Beryl's courage for immortalizing your 'loss' through art."

My jaw dropped. "You want me to lie? You want me to say our baby was stillborn? To cover for you and your psychotic mistress?"

"It's for Beryl's career," he said, as if that explained everything. "And our reputation. Just do as you're told."

"Never," I spat, my voice shaking with fury. "You are a murderer, Griffith Wyatt! Both of you! You killed my child!"

His eyes hardened. "Don't be foolish, Adelia. I'm trying to protect what's left. If you don't cooperate... that orphanage you love so much? The one you always pretend to care about? It would be a shame if it suddenly lost all its funding. Or perhaps, suffered a 'tragic accident' of its own."

My breath caught in my throat. He wouldn't. He couldn't. But his eyes, cold and calculating, told me he would. He would destroy everything I held dear. For Beryl. For his image.

"No," I whispered. My voice was broken. "Please... don't hurt the children."

"Then you'll cooperate?" he asked, a triumphant glint in his eyes.

I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping. "Yes," I choked out. "I'll do it. Just leave the orphanage alone."

The camera lights were blinding. The microphone felt like a serpent coiled around my throat. I sat, my face a mask of grief and forced composure, reciting the lies Griffith had fed me. A tragic stillbirth. A courageous artist honoring my pain. My choice. My sacrifice.

The comments scrolled by on a monitor, a relentless stream of hatred. "What a psycho!" "Using her dead baby for fame!" "Disgusting! She deserves to rot!" Each word was a fresh wound, but I felt nothing. I was numb.

A wave of nausea, sharper this time, made me sway. I felt faint. "I need to leave," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

One of Griffith's men, standing stiffly behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder. "Just a few more minutes, Mrs. Wyatt."

My head spun. I had missed my flight. My escape. I forced a bitter, humorless laugh. Of course I had. He always found a way to keep me tethered to his hell.