#Chapter Three

Moving back into the Armstrong estate was Eleanor's idea.

“I'm not comfortable with you living alone in that empty apartment, Annabella,” she said over the phone, concern that left no room for refusal. “Come back. There are people here. We can look after you. Besides… Lillian's been in a terrible state lately. You two… maybe you can comfort each other.”

Comfort.

With Lillian?

My fingers were icy around the receiver. My stomach churned with a sick, absurd nausea.

But I agreed.

Uncle Jirei had told me to act normal until the “plan” executed—don't raise suspicion.

And I needed to see it with my own eyes: how far the lies had spread inside this gilded cage.

The day I moved back felt like walking into a perfectly staged silent play.

Godfather Arthur wore a permanent frown, caught between family business and “the grief of losing a son,” barely touching his food. Eleanor's eyes always looked just wet enough, her worried gaze drifting over me and Lillian at careful intervals.

And “Dominic”—Silvio—was the unquestioned lead.

He played the role flawlessly: a man shattered by his brother's death, exhausted with worry for his sickly wife. His care for Lillian was meticulous; every look he gave her was heavy with solemn devotion. When it came to me, he offered Dominic's version of courtesy: controlled, distant, polite.

And I was the widow whose “grief seemed to be improving.”

I didn't cry as easily. I could look at Silvio's portrait and keep my face smooth. I ate on schedule. I swallowed prenatal vitamins. Everything about me fit the image of a pregnant woman trying to walk out of the dark—for the baby's sake.

Only I knew what lived under that calm.

I'd already gone to the clinic Uncle Jirei arranged. The procedure was booked for next week.

I was waiting.

But the estate clearly had no intention of letting me remain only an observer.

That night, maybe it was pregnancy symptoms, but I woke before dawn with a fierce thirst. I slipped out, barefoot on the freezing marble, and headed for the kitchen.

When I passed the master bedroom—the room that belonged to “Dominic” and Lillian now—a sound stopped me:

a tiny, strangled sob.

So soft, but in the absolute silence it swelled until it filled my ears.

“Please… Silvio…” Lillian's voice—broken with tears, desperate and hot. “I don't have much time… you heard the doctor. I just… I just want, before I go, to give everything I am to the man I fell in love with. Just once.”

My blood turned to ice.

Silvio.

She called him Silvio.

Inside, there was silence—only heavy breathing.

Then Lillian's voice dropped lower, sliding into my ear like a snake:

“I know… I know you're someone else's husband… but I'm not asking for more. I just want a memory. Something that's ours… please…”

Then I heard Silvio's voice—hoarse, tight:

“Lillian… don't do this…”

“What's wrong with it?” Lillian's voice suddenly turned wounded and sweet. “Silvio, you promised Dominic you'd take care of me. Did you forget?”

She sniffed, coaxing through tears. “Annabella will never know… just tonight, Silvio. Just pity me. I only want… just this little bit…”

“Lillian…” Silvio sounded tortured, confused.

He didn't answer.

But then—fabric scraping hard, a muffled groan, and the sound of resistance disappearing.

The bed springs squeaked under weight. Stifled breath. Lillian's moans—no longer hiding, slick with tears.

Silvio never said yes.

But every sound did.

I stood outside the door, rigid—like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, freezing my limbs down to the bone.

She knew.

Lillian knew perfectly well he was Silvio, not Dominic.

That was why she'd deliberately made Silvio feed her at the table—because Dominic would never.

And that line in the bridal shop—*after this, you won't get many chances*—was never pity.

It was a brag.

And Silvio…

This wasn't drunken mistake. This wasn't an accident.

This was a filthy, willing affair.

While I was tearing myself apart over his “death,” while I was fighting to keep *our* baby alive, he wore his brother's name, lay in his brother's bed, and tangled himself with his brother's wife.

Every guess, every doubt, every attempt at self-deception shattered in one brutal strike.

The thirst in my throat had long been replaced by nausea.

I made no sound.

I only backed away—slowly, one step at a time—away from that door reeking of sin and betrayal.

I returned to my room. I shut the door. Sliding down the icy wood, I sat on the floor with my back against it.

No tears.

No noise.

Just silence.

Silvio hadn't died.

He'd just died to me.

I lifted a hand and rested it gently over my belly.

That place had once held hope and love.

Now it was a barren sheet of ice.

Outside, Chicago was still submerged in deep autumn darkness. The estate felt like a massive tomb—burying love, burying the last of my innocence.

Good.

They were all waiting for the “resurrection” act, weren't they?

Then I would be there on time.

And I would personally ring the funeral bell for it.