You Shouldn't Have Come

Cassandra woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of Grace babbling in her crib.

She lay still for a moment, listening. The cottage was quiet—peaceful. The only sounds were the birds outside and Grace's soft coos drifting through the baby monitor.

She smiled.

She pushed herself out of bed, her body still heavy with sleep, and padded down the hallway to the nursery. The door was slightly open. Warm light spilled into the hallway.

She pushed it open.

Dante was already there.

He was sitting in the rocking chair, Grace cradled in his arms. He was talking to her in a low voice—telling her about the lake, about the trees, about the birds outside the window. His voice was soft. Gentle. Full of love.

Grace was staring up at him, her tiny face bright with wonder.

Cassandra stood in the doorway, her heart full.

---

The doorbell rang.

Cassandra froze. Dante's voice stopped mid-sentence. Grace's coos fell silent.

They looked at each other.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Cassandra whispered.

Dante shook his head.

He stood, handing Grace to Cassandra. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark.

"Stay here," he said.

He walked to the front door. Cassandra followed—close behind, Grace clutched to her chest.

Dante opened the door slowly.

His face went pale.

Big Aunty stood on the porch.

She was older than Cassandra remembered—thinner, frailer, her hair streaked with gray. But her eyes were the same. Sharp. Cold. Calculating. And her smile—a thin, brittle smile—made Cassandra's blood run cold.

"I heard you had a baby," Big Aunty said. "I came to meet her."

Cassandra froze.

Her arms tightened around Grace. Her heart pounded. Her breath caught in her throat.

Big Aunty's eyes flicked to her—cold, dismissive.

"Still here, I see," she said.

Cassandra didn't respond.

Dante stepped forward, blocking Big Aunty's view of Cassandra and Grace.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I told you. I came to meet the baby." Big Aunty smiled. "I'm family, after all."

"You're not welcome here."

"I'm your aunt. Your only living relative besides Evan." Her smile widened. "You can't just turn me away."

Dante's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.

"Watch me."

Big Aunty laughed. "You always were dramatic, Dante. Just like your father."

Cassandra saw Dante flinch. She saw the pain flicker across his face.

She stepped forward, her hand on his back.

"Let her in," she said quietly.

Dante turned to look at her. His eyes were wide.

"Cassandra—"

"Let her in. We'll deal with it."

His aunty stayed for dinner.

She sat at the table, eating the food Dante had cooked, making comments about everything—the cottage, the furniture, the view of the lake.

"Small," she said. "But charming. In a rustic sort of way."

Cassandra didn't respond. She just held Grace closer.

Dante Aunty held Grace after dinner.

She lifted her from Cassandra's arms without asking, her grip too tight, her smile too wide.

"She has your eyes," Big Aunty said. "Your mother's eyes."

Cassandra's blood ran cold. "How do you know what my mother looked like?"

Big Aunty's smile faltered. "I—I saw photographs."

---

That night, Big Aunty pulled Dante aside.

Cassandra watched from the hallway, her heart pounding.

"I know something," Big Aunty said quietly. "About Samantha. About what she did. About who she was working for."

Dante's jaw tightened. "What do you know?"

"I know everything." Big Aunty smiled. "But I'll only tell you if you let me stay. If you let me be part of this family again."

---

The next morning, Cassandra woke to an empty nursery.

Grace's crib was empty. The blanket was tossed aside. The mobile was still spinning.

Her heart stopped.

She ran through the cottage, her feet slapping against the floor.

"Dante! Dante!"

She found him in the kitchen. He turned when he saw her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Grace. She's gone."

They searched the cottage.

Every room. Every closet. Every corner.

Nothing.

Then Cassandra heard it—a soft coo from the nursery.

She ran back.

Big Aunty was standing by the crib, Grace in her arms.

Cassandra glared at her.

Dante slowly reach for Cassandra and embraced her tightly.

After she left, Cassandra and Dante stood by the nursery, Grace safe in Dante's arms.

Big Aunty had retreated to her room—the guest room at the end of the hall, the one with the broken lock and the window that didn't quite close. Her threats hung in the air like smoke. They didn't know what to believe. They didn't know what she really knew.

But they couldn't just throw her out. Not yet.

"We need to watch her," Dante said quietly. "Find out what she really knows."

Cassandra nodded. Her hand rested on Grace's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

"Then we watch her," she said.

---

Big Aunty settled into the cottage as if she belonged there.

She walked through the rooms like she owned them. She ran her fingers along the furniture, her lip curling at the mismatched chairs, the worn sofa, the paintings Cassandra had chosen from a local artist.

"Small," she said. "But charming. In a rustic sort of way."

Cassandra didn't respond.

She criticized everything.

The food was too bland. The furniture was too old. The view of the lake was too quiet. She had an opinion about everything—and none of them were kind.

"You should have stayed in the city," she told Dante. "This place is beneath you."

"It's our home," he said flatly.

She laughed. "For now."

She made comments about Cassandra.

Little things. Quiet things. Things that burrowed under the skin and stayed there.

"You're looking tired," she said one morning. "Motherhood doesn't suit you."

"I'm fine."

"You're pale. Thin. You should eat more."

"I'm fine."

"You should let me help with the baby. You're obviously struggling."

Cassandra didn't respond.

She tried to hold Grace every chance she got.

She'd appear in the nursery, her arms outstretched, a smile on her face.

"Let me take her. You rest."

Cassandra shook her head. "I've got her."

"Don't be selfish. The baby needs time with her family."

"She has her family."

Big Aunty's smile faltered.

---

Daniel visited that afternoon.

He walked into the cottage, saw Big Aunty sitting in the living room, and stopped.

His face went pale.

"Daniel," Big Aunty said, her smile thin. "How lovely to see you."

Daniel didn't respond. He turned to Cassandra and pulled her aside.

"She's dangerous," he said quietly. "You need to get her out of here."

"We can't. Not yet."

"Cassandra—"

"I know. But we need to find out what she knows. About Samantha. About everything."

Daniel's jaw tightened. He didn't like it. But he understood.

---

That night, Big Aunty joined them for dinner.

She sat across from Cassandra, her eyes cold, her smile sharp. She ate slowly, deliberately, as if she had all the time in the world.

"You don't belong here," she said quietly.

Cassandra met her gaze. "I'm not going anywhere."

Big Aunty laughed. "We'll see."

---

Dante and Cassandra made a plan that night.

They would keep Big Aunty close. They would watch her. They would gather information. And when they had enough—they would send her away for good.

"She's not going to make it easy," Cassandra said.

"She never does."

---

That night, Cassandra couldn't sleep.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. Big Aunty was in the guest room, just down the hall. She was a threat. A danger. A woman who had tried to destroy her.

And she was still here.

Cassandra heard a noise.

A creak. A footstep. Something moving in the hallway.

She sat up. Her heart pounded. Her breath caught in her throat.

She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Dante. She padded to the door and opened it slowly.

The hallway was dark. The only light came from the moon outside the window.

Big Aunty stood outside Grace's room.

Her hand was on the door. Her fingers curled around the handle.

Cassandra's blood ran cold.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

Big Aunty turned. Her face was pale. Her eyes were cold.

"Checking on the baby," she said. "I couldn't sleep."

"Get away from her door."

Big Aunty smiled. "Don't be dramatic. I was just—"

"Get away from my daughter."