Chapter 1

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!”

He ordered his staff to seal me away in the forgotten attic, forbidding anyone from bringing me food.

I struggled, begging him, telling him the ultrasound showed the twins were overgrown, and the doctor had ordered me to be admitted for labor *today*.

But he just laughed, as if I’d told a hilarious joke, his voice like shards of ice:

“You’re not due for another three days! Stop playing the victim! Go to the attic and think about what you’ve done! This is what happens when you upset Seraphina!”

My contractions ripped through me, so intense I clawed my nails until they broke, but no one came to open the door. My raw, gut-wrenching screams echoed in that lonely attic for hours.

Until I was soaked in my own blood, a small, unformed baby still tragically stuck in the raw, bloody cavern where my body had torn.

Three days later, Julian, sipping a plain, unappetizing broth, finally spoke:

“Tell Iris to come out and make me some broth, then have her go apologize to Seraphina. If her apology is sincere, then send her to the hospital to deliver the baby.”

No one dared to answer.

Because the blood from the attic had already seeped out, staining the second step of the staircase.