After I died nine months pregnant in the attic, my husband went crazy.

When I was nine months pregnant, the woman Julian Blackwood considered his one true love, Seraphina Hayes, moved into our home under false pretenses.

Every time she saw me, she’d dramatically clutch her chest, a picture of delicate sorrow, as if my very presence was a painful memory for her.

Julian became convinced I was deliberately parading my huge belly around to provoke Seraphina.

“Seraphina is too delicate to have children! And you insist on flaunting your pregnancy in front of her every day! It seems you won’t learn your lesson without a good punishment!”