Chapter 4

ELISHA’S POV

My nails dug into my palm, reopening the wound beneath the gauze. I felt warm blood seep through the bandage, but the sting barely registered.

Not compared to this.

This silence. This space between us.

This quiet rejection from the man I married.

I stood there, small and unraveling, in the wide, too-bright hospital room, feeling like a misplaced object someone forgot to throw away. 

My voice was tight, raw. “I didn’t hurt her,” I said, looking at Anthony, begging him with my eyes to remember who I was. 

He sighed. “I’ll look into it,” he replied. “But right now, you owe Natalie an apology for accusing her of lying.”

There it was.

I knew the family always favored her. I knew even Anthony had a softness for Natalie that he never had for me.

But I never thought he’d be this blind.

I turned slowly, and there she was—Natalie—biting her lip like she hated every moment of this drama. 

She tugged gently on Anthony’s sleeve, her voice quiet and trembling. 

“Maybe just let it go. I wasn’t trying to blame Elisha. I just can’t handle alcohol well. She probably didn’t know. It’s not her fault.”

I almost laughed.

What a saint she was. Forgiving me for something I never even did. The tears, the softness, the perfect picture of humility.

How could anyone see through her act if they never wanted to?

Anthony turned back to her, eyes filled with the kind of concern I’d once prayed for. “I’ll find out the truth,” he told her solemnly. “If someone hurt you, I won’t let them get away with it.”

And he meant it. For her.

He’d never spoken to me like that. Not when I fell down the stairs and lost our child. Not when I couldn’t get out of bed for days. Not when I bled in silence while he poured wine and made polite conversation with guests.

I sighed.

I didn’t say anything more. I didn’t have the energy to beg. I turned and walked away, barely flinching when Anthony called my name.

***

Natalie was discharged the next morning.

The staff buzzed about, fluffing pillows and prepping meals. The housekeeper, Grace, had just returned from visiting her hometown and nearly burst into tears seeing Natalie on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and looking fragile.

She’d practically raised Anthony. She’d been with the Möllers for over three decades and viewed the family as her own. Compared to me—quiet, reserved, always in my head—Natalie was charming, radiant, and immediately likable.

“Lunch?” the housekeeper asked cheerfully.

But Natalie clutched her stomach and gave a little pout. “I don’t know… I kind of want Elisha’s salad. Her cucumber and herb one? No eggs, of course.”

I blinked. “I already know you’re allergic, Nat. Mom told me the second you mentioned it. I’ve never used eggs in anything I made for you.”

She smiled. “You probably didn’t notice last time. I mean, desserts often have eggs in the recipe. But it’s okay—I forgive you.”

“You forgive me?” I repeated slowly.

Her tone never changed. It stayed soft, sweet, pious. Like she was trying to help me save face in front of the housekeeper.

Anthony walked in just in time to catch my expression hardening. “Natalie’s pregnant,” he reminded me pointedly. “Be nice.”

Of course. Be nice. Because clearly, kindness is a one-way street now.

***

I stood in the kitchen, slowly slicing cucumbers with my bandaged hand. 

Every motion made the cut throb, but I didn’t stop. No one had asked how I was feeling. No one noticed the way my hand trembled under pressure. The gauze had already stained through again.

I brought out the salad. It looked perfect, crisp and bright, just like she liked it.

But just as I set it down, Natalie winced and placed a dramatic hand over her stomach. “Ugh… suddenly I feel sick. Sorry, I don’t want it anymore.”

Anthony didn’t look up from his phone. “If you don’t want it, then forget it. Just tell your sister when you feel like eating.”

Your sister.

Your servant.

I picked up the untouched plate and turned around silently, walked back into the kitchen, and dumped the entire thing into the trash with one satisfying clatter. 

The sound of metal hitting porcelain echoed like a private scream.

I wiped my hands and turned to leave—when a delighted squeal echoed from upstairs.

I froze.

No. No.

I took the stairs two at a time.

The nursery door was wide open.

Natalie stood near the window, sunlight streaming in over her face like a blessing. She turned, beaming.

“I love this room!” she said, spinning slightly on her heel. “It’s so airy and peaceful. Can I use it for my baby, please?”

My stomach turned.

What?

This room—Carrie’s room—hadn’t been touched since the day I lost her.

I kept the door shut for a reason. I came here when I needed to breathe, to feel close to the child I’d never get to meet. This was sacred. This was grief made physical.

And Natalie wanted to repaint it.

Hang her baby’s clothes here.

Make it hers.

Was she insane?

And—what was she even saying? Did she plan to move in? Into our home?

She had a perfectly good house with our parents, a room they redecorated just for her. So why here? Why now? Why this room?

Was she planning to raise her baby under my roof? With my husband?

The thought made my throat close.

“No,” I said, my voice sharp. Cold. Firm.

Natalie blinked, genuinely surprised. “Why not? It’s just sitting here.”

“It’s not for you,” I said.

Just then, I heard footsteps behind me.

Anthony.

“That’s fine,” he said, voice calm and casual. “She can use it if she wants to.”