Chapter 2

Then I had just hung up from Agent Johnson's call when I heard footsteps approaching the door.

I quickly closed my eyes and feigned sleep, my heart still pounding wildly.

Mikhail suddenly burst through the door, his breathing ragged. He stopped beside my bed, his gaze burning into me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

After a few seconds, he let out a sigh of relief.

He gently shook my shoulder. "Calliope, wake up."

I pretended to be roused from sleep, slowly opening my eyes. "What's wrong?"

"You were talking in your sleep," he said, frowning. "You sounded like you were in pain."

My heart sank. What had he heard? I put on a confused expression. "I was talking in my sleep?"

Mikhail sat down on the edge of the bed. "You said 'don't love anymore,' and it sounded like you were crying. Were you dreaming about our child again?"

So he thought it was just sleep talk. Relief washed over me – better to let him think that.

"Yes," my voice caught slightly. "I dreamed he was asking us why mommy and daddy didn't love him."

When I mentioned the child, the grief was real. That baby we'd lost before we could even meet him – thinking about him made my chest ache with a pain so sharp I could barely breathe.

Mikhail's expression darkened, and he pulled me into his arms. "Don't think like that, Calliope. What happened to the baby was an accident. It wasn't your fault."

His embrace was still warm, but I knew that warmth could be withdrawn at any moment.

"We're still young. We can have more children," he said, patting my back.

I closed my eyes, tears soaking into his shoulder. More children? Did he think having a new baby would somehow erase what had happened?

I said nothing, and after a moment, I pulled away from his embrace.

"It's the middle of the night. Did you come here for something?"

Mikhail's expression became uncomfortable, and he avoided my gaze. "Actually, Bianca's been feeling weak. She's asking for that nutritious soup you make. Could you give me the recipe?"

I stared at him in disbelief. I had just miscarried, my body so weak I could barely stand, and he was asking for my recipe to nourish another woman.

"You want my recipe?"

"For the kitchen staff, so they can make it," he clarified. "You're still recovering, of course you don't need to cook it yourself."

I thought about those soups. Throughout our three-year marriage, I had spent every day researching nutritional combinations, personally working in the kitchen to make them for him. I knew every ingredient ratio, every step's timing, because I wanted him to be healthy.

I had anemia myself, but he had never once asked what nutrients I might need.

"Once we're divorced, I won't have to spend every day slaving away in the kitchen. These recipes won't matter anymore." I remembered saying that once.

Now I recited the recipe easily – every ingredient, every step, like I was reading from a textbook.

Mikhail recorded it on his phone, his expression complex, as if he hadn't expected me to be so cooperative, so detached.

"Calliope..." he began.

"Is there anything else?" I cut him off.

A nurse knocked and entered. "Mr. Volkov, Miss Bianca is asking for you. She says she has a severe headache."

I saw the flash of concern in Mikhail's eyes, though he said irritably, "What a pain." His body was already rising from the bed.

"Get some rest. I need to go deal with this," he said, rushing out.

I closed my eyes. I'd seen this routine too many times before.

But unexpectedly, over an hour later, Mikhail reappeared, his face dark with fury. He strode toward me and unceremoniously pulled me from the bed.

"Mikhail! What are you doing?" I was so weak I could barely stand.

His hand clamped around my jaw with enough force to make me wince. "Bianca developed severe abdominal pain and vomiting after consuming the soup. What did you put in that recipe?"

I looked at him expressionlessly. "If you suspect the recipe, have it tested. Or just get physical. No need for an interrogation."

"Calliope!" His voice rose. "I'm asking you a question!"

Looking at his rage, I didn't even blink.

I thought about all those past incidents. Bianca had always been skilled at manufacturing "accidents" – bruises on her wrists, torn dresses, always crying and accusing me of causing them.

And Mikhail always chose to believe her, subjecting me to questioning and condemnation.

Now I understood. He wasn't blind to these tricks – he just needed a scapegoat.

"Like I said, there's nothing to explain." I closed my eyes. "Do whatever you want."

Mikhail released his grip, and I could feel his shock. "I'm your husband, not your judge."

"There's nothing left to discuss between us."

I lay back down.

His whole body was trembling, as if he was truly realizing for the first time how distant and resolute I had become. He stood by the bed for a long time, wanting to speak but holding back.

The nurse knocked again. "Sir, Miss Bianca's symptoms have subsided, but she's very emotionally unstable and keeps asking for you."

Mikhail stared at me intensely. "Tomorrow, we're returning to the estate to hold a farewell ceremony for the child."

With that, he left again to care for his "emotionally unstable" woman.

The room fell silent once more.

I didn't sleep all night, my mind filled with thoughts of the child who never got to have a name before he left us. After tomorrow, he would be completely forgotten.

When dawn broke, Mikhail appeared punctually.

He drove me back to the Volkov estate in silence. Mourning wreaths hung at the estate gates, the servants all dressed in black, and the deep toll of church bells echoed from the distance.

I walked weakly toward the family cemetery, wanting to say one last prayer for my child.

The church bells still resonated, and the entire estate was deathly quiet.

I had just reached the church entrance when a roar erupted behind me.

"How dare you show your face here!"

Slap! Slap!

Two strikes hit my face, sending me staggering backward. Margaret grabbed my hair and began beating me.

"You killed my grandson! You poisonous witch!" she screamed while hitting me. "And then you fed my stillborn child to the dogs!"

I froze completely.

Fed my stillborn child to dogs? When had I ever done such a thing?

That was what Bianca had done. I had seen her steal the child's remains from the hospital with my own eyes, witnessed her commit that cruel act.

But why was she pinning this crime on me? More importantly, why would Margaret believe it?

There had to be something I didn't know about.