Chapter 2

—LYSANDRA’s POV

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Edric looks at me the same way one would look at a child throwing an unnecessary tantrum and proceeds to scoff.

“You,” he begins with a snarl. “Always looking for ways to get my attention when I am in the middle of something important. Always”

I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t. Grinding his dick into the walls of another woman is somehow more important than his dying wife.

How original.

I try to speak but his thick voice layers over mine immediately. “I know you, Lysandra.” His gaze sharpens. “I mean, pretending to be sick was one thing, starving yourself and trying to make me look ruthless and buy your lie was another. But now lying about your death. It gets to a point. Enough with your juvenile tricks” He ends his words with a bitter scoff.

“I am not lying!” My voice comes out flaccid and I hate it so much.

I pull out the thick rolled paper from my sleeves, containing the report Lyeon has recorded. “This is the report from Dr. Lyeon” I huff out a breath.

He laughs, a bitter, gnarly laugh that vibrates in my stomach. “What do you think I am Lysandra? A fool. I know you want nothing more than attention; fine, I’ll give it to you for now. Now you spent the whole day faking an entire medical report so I can believe you’re dying?”

My lips tremble and I try not to break down. “I faked nothing. This looks nothing like my handwriting, I am sick Edric! You can go on and ask Dr. Lyeon, he’ll tell you all, he wrote all of this, not me.”

He glares at me. “So you got Lyeon to lie for you. Dragging that old man into your juvenile games now. Just a tiny lack of attention and you’re talking about dying. Don’t you dare use deception on me anymore.” His voice is grim and his glare is vicious.

“Get out.” He orders.

My tears are already threatening to fall. “No— I—

“Eliza.” He cuts me off by calling her name.

The door immediately swings open and Eliza storms back in like a dog on a leash, giggling. She's unclad and shameless as she runs towards Edric. She gets on the bed and the two of them proceed to ignore me

“Now. Where were we?” Eliza grins as she spreads her legs the same time she sinks into the bed under Edric, tugging his shirt and grabbing his bigness with her other hand.

Edric stops her, walks down the bed, and shoves me outside the room and I hear a click indicating he’s locked the door. My blood drops and the pain from our severing bond immediately takes over my body, shrinking my flesh and body to nothing. I cower and wince in pain. This isn’t rejection but it doesn’t feel like it’s far from it.

I go back to my room, one of the house’s empty rooms I’ve made mine, since my matrimonial room and bed have turned into a ground for sin.

A knock comes into the room distracting my mind greatly, and before I can answer, a servant pushes the door open and shoves my tray of food towards me like a dog. She passes me a nasty look before walking out.

I look down at my supposed dinner and it’s nothing more than the leftover scraps from yesterday. Moldy toasted bread and grey-looking jam on the side. I shove the food aside with my leg and heave a breath.

I bury my head in my hands and let my tears out. Crying feels like my only option and I can’t help it. My head, body, and heart hurt; I desire nothing but rest, but sleeping doesn’t feel possible with this amount of pain I feel.

~

Time slips by before I can finish drowning in melancholy and before I know it, the sun has come up. I get on my feet the minute I hear footsteps rushing through the halls. I can also hear movements and furniture being dragged, and I try to smile as I realize what today is.

Though my body aches, I try to ignore as I stare at the ceiling for a long moment, breathing carefully, and feel the pain fade.

Today is Henry’s birthday. My son. He’s everything a mother would want for a child, he's handsome like his father, perceptive, ambitious at his age and smarter than most of his peers. At age six, he’s taller than all, no doubt inheriting his father’s genes.

The thought briefly elevates me and I sigh and steady myself. I take a step towards the door and my reflection catches in the mirror beside the wardrobe and almost startles me. My face has grown thinner again. My collarbones press sharply against my skin. Even my nightdress hangs on me as cloth thrown over a skeleton.

No wonder everyone in this pack looks at me with disgust. I look withered.

It’ll be embarrassing to be seen like this, but today is Henry’s birthday. And this will probably be the last one I will ever see.

Folded carefully on the chair beside my bed is the dress I spent weeks secretly sewing by hand. Red fabric. Cheap fabric. But beautiful enough if one does not look too closely at the stitching.

I run my fingers over it gently.

I have no jewels to wear with it. No expensive silks like the noblewomen. No servants helping me dress. Still, I wanted to look beautiful today. At least once. for my son. He’s turning six. A golden age, and for a boy smart for his age.

As the busyness continues downstairs, I quickly put on my dress. The process of dressing leaves me breathless. By the time I finish tying the back of the dress, sweat clings to my skin, and my hands tremble from exhaustion. But when I look into the mirror again, something inside me softens.

I do not look beautiful.

But I look like a mother trying. And that is enough.

I reach for the small wooden horse resting on the bedside table. Henry’s gift.

I carved it myself during the nights I could not sleep from the pain. The wood is uneven in some places because my hands shook badly while making it, but I still hold it carefully, as if it were precious. Because it is.

A sudden slam makes me jump.

The bedroom door swings open.

Henry walks in with fine clothes already tailored for the celebration, his small shoes polished, his dark hair neatly combed. He looks so much like Edric that it almost hurts to stare at him sometimes.

But he is still my son.

A smile immediately pulls on my lips. “Happy birthday sweetie,” I say warmly.

Emotion swells painfully in my chest as I move toward him, opening my arms for a hug.

But Henry does not move. His eyes drag slowly over my dress and His face twists in disgust.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he hisses.

I blink, startled by the sharpness in his tone.

“For your party,” I say softly. “I made the dress myself. Do you like it?” I smooth my hands nervously over the fabric.

“I wanted to look nice for you today.”

For a moment, Henry just stares at me. Then his expression hardens with sudden fury and he stomps his feet. His usual obnoxious habit.

“I don’t want you to come! You ugly witch!” He yells.