I remember the night they took my son.

It wasn’t just the cold stone floor of the slave quarters, or the blood soaking through the sheets. It was the way ML looked at me—like I was already dead. He held one of our twins, his expression unreadable, then turned without a word. I begged him to let me hold them both. He didn’t answer.

Later, SFL came with tears in her eyes. 'He’s gone,' she whispered. 'The baby didn’t make it. ML couldn’t bear to tell you.'

I screamed until my throat bled. Then I stopped breathing. When I woke, a man stood over me—my father, alive, saying we had to run.

Now, five years later, I see ML across a boardroom table. His eyes search mine like he’s forgotten how to speak. SFL sits beside him, flawless, smirking.

He leans forward. 'We need to talk about what happened.'

I smile, sharp as glass. 'You mean the lie that broke me? Or the truth you were too weak to see?'