Chapter 11

Grace clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a scream. God—Daisy didn’t seem like a child at all. Grace wondered if she had some madness or was simply a budding sociopath. This was murder, and the girl didn’t even flinch.

But she was a child. Even if Grace called the police, Daisy wouldn’t face the punishment she deserved.

Grace wiped her tears and looked at Sophie, motionless on the bed. It felt like ten thousand needles stitching through her heart. If Sophie woke, Grace would never let her live in this place of grief again.

A plan took shape. Vivian Moore, Daisy Moore—and Ethan Foster—would pay one day.

Grace opened ins, found a contact, and sent a message: “I’ve divorced Ethan Foster. I want to bring him down too. Meet?” The reply came almost instantly: “Okay.”

At the villa garden, a fairy-tale castle rose on the lawn. The air smelled sweet with cake. Daisy wore a starry dress and a tiny crown, standing center stage amid a mountain of gifts. Ethan and Vivian flanked her, Ethan’s eyes soft with tenderness as he held the mic.

“To our Daisy, one year older,” he said. “May you grow more beautiful, find joy in everything, and live a safe life. Daisy, you’ll always be the best little princess in your Uncle Ethan’s heart.”

He set the mic down and had his assistant bring out a gift box. Under the guests’ gaze, he opened it to reveal a bracelet studded with tiny star‑cut diamonds. “From a boutique in France—one of a kind,” he said, fastening it on Daisy’s wrist. She threw herself into his arms and kissed his cheek. He lifted her without hesitation.

Most of the women had come for Ethan’s sake, and many of them disapproved. Their voices stayed low, but the whispers flowed. “I’ve never seen Mr. Foster throw such a lavish birthday for his own daughter,” one muttered. “Imagine his real daughter, how her heart would break.” Another sighed. “Divorced or not, the child is still his, isn’t she? Love the house, love the crow; hate the house, hate the crow.”

Vivian ignored the gossip, snapping photos with delight. She posted nine carefully chosen pictures to her Moments—nearly every one with Ethan in it. In the center of the nine‑grid was Ethan’s hand over Daisy’s as they cut the cake together, his face unusually gentle in the sun. Her caption read: “Thank you to Uncle Ethan for weaving a beautiful fairy-tale for Daisy. A child raised in loving hands—may you always believe in love and miracles.”

In the ICU, Grace sat by Sophie’s ear, reading to her. During a break, she happened to open Moments and saw the post. Her heart seemed to stop, breath gone, only a long suffocation left behind. You don’t have to love us—but don’t hurt us.

Every ounce of indulgence Ethan gave that mother and daughter was a wound he dealt to Grace and Sophie. Grace deleted Vivian from ins, shut her phone, and gripped her daughter’s cold hand. She wished with all her being for Sophie to wake, to grow up strong, to someday stand before a graying Ethan and say, “I grew just fine without your love.”

Then she caught herself—Ethan didn’t deserve to see Sophie again in this life.

Cold machines beeped in a steady, lonely rhythm, each tone landing on the most fragile part of the heart. Bloodshot veins webbed Grace’s eyes; her throat ached dry, but no tears came—despair had boiled them away. When she closed her eyes, she saw those photos again: Ethan cradling Daisy, grinning wide, while Sophie lay full of tubes, alone on the knife‑edge of life and death.

Ethan had forgotten he had a biological daughter. He didn’t even know she was fighting for her life. They were all murderers. They deserved damnation. If Sophie died, Grace would drag that entire trio to hell.

The pain gnawed her goodness to the bone. Thinking of them made her sick. Hatred—vast, suffocating hatred—filled her chest and stole her breath. A volcano rumbled in her heart, ready to erupt. All her past endurance, all her faint, foolish hopes, turned to ash. Expect him to reflect? To remember Sophie? To spare his daughter a crumb of love? No. She expected nothing now. He didn’t deserve a single update about Sophie. He didn’t deserve a glimpse. He didn’t even deserve a fake tear.

If he couldn’t remember his daughter, then if she lived, Grace would let Sophie die in his world. And if Sophie didn’t wake, Grace would take them all down with her. Hell is empty; the devils walk the earth.