I woke to the scent of iron and sweat, my body torn, my child wailing in the crook of my arm. The midwife had left me for dead. But I wasn’t dead. And my son wasn’t safe. I stumbled through the halls, barefoot, bleeding, clinging to the walls like a ghost. Then I saw the light beneath the parlor door. Laughter. His voice. Elias. And hers—Lysette’s silken laugh, the one she used when she thought no one was listening.

I pressed close, the cold wood against my forehead. Through the crack, I saw them—holding a swaddled infant. Their child. And then the words cut deeper than any blade: 'Once the little monster dies, the line is ours. And Isabella’s fortune follows her to the grave.'

My fingers tightened around my son. He whimpered. I held my breath. They couldn’t know I was alive. Not yet. But as I slipped back into the shadows, one truth burned in my chest: they should have made sure I was dead.