The morning light filtered through the curtains, but it brought no warmth.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands resting on my swollen belly. Our third child kicked gently, as if reminding me what was at stake. The rose-gold collar around my neck felt colder than usual, a beautiful prison I had once accepted with trembling surrender.
Alexander was in the shower. I could hear the water running. For a few precious minutes, I was alone with my thoughts — and they were screaming.
He killed her.
The words repeated like a curse. My mother had tried to save me, and he had silenced her forever so he could own me completely. I had married him. I had given him children. I had moaned his name while he claimed every part of me.
What kind of daughter was I?
A soft knock sounded on the
