#Chapter Four

In the days that followed, I forced myself to act normal.

I showed up at the dining table on schedule. I ate quietly. As for “Dominic” and Lillian, I treated them as if they didn't exist.

But every time Eleanor reminded me to eat more, to take care of myself, “Dominic's” eyes would twist with something complicated—guilt, struggle, and a kind of pain I couldn't decode.

I didn't have room to care.

Because the words *not much time* were a poisoned thorn in my mind.

Could someone who'd been “given days to live” really have that kind of energy—and that kind of desire?

My chance came during my routine “prenatal checkup.”

The driver took me to St. Mary's. I walked toward OB like I'd done a hundred times—then turned the corner and headed into the inpatient wing.

Lillian was supposedly “receiving treatment” here in the VIP suite.

I watched for a moment, then stopped a young nurse heading for rounds.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said softly, forcing worry onto my face. “I wanted to ask—Lillian Armstrong… she's under Dr. Hans, right?”

The nurse looked me up and down, her gaze dropping to my pregnant belly. Her guard lowered a little. “And you are…?”

“I'm her sister-in-law.” I sighed, letting my eyes redden on cue. “Everyone's worried, but she keeps saying she's fine… I just wanted to ask privately how she really is. What does Dr. Hans say?”

The nurse glanced around, then tugged me into a corner, voice dropping.

“Ma'am, I'll only say this to you… it's a little strange.”

“Strange?”

“Dr. Hans is very invested. The medications are all top-tier new stuff—ridiculously expensive. Some of the tests have been repeated three times just this month.” She pursed her lips, then pulled out a photocopied sheet clipped to her board. “Look—these numbers are a bit high, sure, but they're nowhere near ‘failure' levels.”

I quickly snapped a photo of the key section with my phone.

“Thank you,” I murmured, slipping a bill into her pocket. “Please don't tell anyone I asked.”

In that instant, the suspicion stopped being fog.

It became a concrete contradiction on cold paper.

I turned to leave—and my phone vibrated in my pocket.

A message:

> Bella, thank you for your silence and tolerance these days. I know Silvio… no, Dominic has spent too much time with me and neglected you, especially when you needed him. But please don't blame him. He's just too kind, and he can't bear to see me spending my last days alone.

Lillian.

Every word was a poisoned needle driven straight into my heart.

Silence? Tolerance? Magnanimity?

What right did she have to “thank” me?

Cold rage surged up with nausea so sharp it burned my throat.

This wasn't gratitude.

It was provocation—victory displayed.

She was boldly poking through the thin paper over the truth, certain I could only swallow it.

That night's dinner was heavy with silence.

I set my spoon down. The crisp clink made everyone look up.

“Dad, Mom,” I said, my voice clear. “I heard there's a Dr. Smith at a clinic in Cleveland—a top specialist in rare diseases. I was thinking, maybe we could invite him to consult on Lillian's case, perhaps—”

“Annabella!”

Eleanor cut me off, sharp. For the first time, her gentle-mother mask tore clean away.

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you questioning us, or are you cursing Lillian?”

Lillian immediately pressed a hand to her chest, eyes reddening.

“Bella… is it me…?” Her voice trembled. “Have I become a burden? Are you unhappy? I'm sorry… it's all my fault…”

Tears rolled down her cheeks right on cue.

And “Dominic” snapped his head up.

In his eyes, what flared wasn't worry—it was offense, hot anger at being challenged.

“Annabella, enough! Watch your words! Are you implying my wife is pretending to be ill, or are you questioning the medical support the family provides? Dr. Hans is the best. We don't need you meddling!”

My wife.

Those two words were four red-hot spikes driven into my heart, burning the blood out of me in an instant.

I watched Silvio turn to Lillian, the cold in his gaze melting into softness.

I watched him defend another woman—calling her *wife*—in front of the whole family, and use that same cold, condemning tone to tell me I was “meddling.”

Arthur set his knife and fork down. His gaze came over, displeasure written plainly across his face.

“Bella, we know losing Silvio has been hard on you, and your emotions have been unstable. But that doesn't mean you can question the family's decisions whenever you want, or say things without evidence. Lillian needs rest, not groundless suspicion. Do you understand?”

His words formed a wall of ice.

The atmosphere at the table sank to freezing.

Every gaze pinned on me—disapproval, blame, even a trace of disgust.

I was the nuisance who'd barged into their harmonious family.

A childish outsider—paranoid, disruptive, ruining the mood.

Lillian leaned into Silvio's shoulder, crying softly, her shoulders trembling.

I swallowed every question I had about the subtle changes on that test sheet. It lodged in my throat like a chunk of ice—cold, abrasive.

Nothing I said mattered anymore.

I finally understood.

I'd been excluded.

I lowered my eyes and forced everything roiling inside me down into the deepest part of my chest.

“I'm sorry,” I heard my own voice say, flat and calm. “I was overthinking.”

I stood and left the dining room.

In that moment, I could feel Silvio's gaze on my back—hesitating, complicated—then quickly sliding away.

It didn't matter.

Not anymore.

Not even a little.

Upstairs, in the cold guest room, I shut the door and leaned against it.

In the dark, I touched my belly gently.

Baby, I'm sorry.

This world is too dirty.

Mom is taking you away.