Chapter 3

Eight o'clock arrived with the inevitability of a funeral procession. I stood outside what Rebecca now called 'the sanctuary,' my hand protectively covering my small baby bump. The ultrasound images remained tucked in my pocket, a tangible reminder of what truly mattered in this house of shadows.

I could hear them inside—the low murmur of voices, the clink of crystal, the soft hiss of candles being lit. My child's room, transformed into a theater for their macabre performance. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door.

The nursery I had lovingly prepared was unrecognizable. Black cloth draped every surface. Dozens of candles created islands of flickering light, their flames dancing across Richard's photographs. Marcus stood near the makeshift altar, his expression solemn but his eyes distant. Eleanor, my mother-in-law, sat rigidly in what had been my rocking chair, her spine never touching the backrest. And at the center of it all stood Rebecca, dressed in black, her face illuminated from below by candlelight, creating hollows beneath her cheekbones.

"Ah, Elena," Eleanor's voice cut through the silence. "How good of you to join us." Her words were polite, but her eyes were cold, assessing me as one might examine a disappointing investment.

Rebecca didn't acknowledge my presence. Instead, she raised her hands theatrically and began to speak, her voice taking on a singsong quality that raised the hair on the back of my neck.

"We gather to honor Richard Sterling, beloved son, husband, and brother," she intoned. "His spirit guides this family still, his wisdom lights our path."

Marcus nodded solemnly, his eyes never meeting mine. I remained by the door, an unwilling audience to this spectacle. The air felt thick with incense and unspoken hostility.

Rebecca moved to a small table where a large, ornate bowl sat beneath Richard's largest portrait. Next to it burned a massive pillar candle, its flame unnaturally bright and hot. With practiced movements, she tilted the candle, allowing thick rivulets of white wax to pour into the basin.

"The wax represents our memories," she explained, her eyes fixed on the molten liquid. "Fluid at first with grief, then hardening into permanent tribute."

The symbolism was heavy-handed, but the others watched with reverent attention. As Rebecca continued to pour, the wax began to pool, its surface reflecting the candlelight like a small, contained moon.

"This sacred space," she continued, her voice rising, "will ensure Richard's presence remains with the Sterling family for generations to come."

Something in me snapped.

"This is not a sacred space," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "This is my child's nursery."

The room went silent. Rebecca slowly turned toward me, the candle still tilted in her hand, hot wax dripping steadily into the basin.

"Your child?" Rebecca's voice was dangerously soft. "You mean the Sterling heir. A child of this family's blood."

"My baby," I insisted, taking a step forward. "Who deserves a room of their own, not a shrine to someone they'll never meet."

Rebecca's face contorted. "How dare you?"

I felt Eleanor move behind me before I saw her. Her hands gripped my upper arms with surprising strength for a woman her age, pinning them to my sides.

"You've said quite enough," Eleanor hissed in my ear.

Rebecca advanced toward me, the candle clutched in her white-knuckled hand. "You are nothing but an interloper," she spat. "A vessel. A temporary inconvenience."

"Rebecca," Marcus said weakly, but made no move to intervene.

"This child is a Sterling," Rebecca continued, her voice rising hysterically. "Not yours to claim. You're stealing our future, just as you've stolen this house!"

With a sudden, violent motion, she flung her arm forward. I felt the scalding splash before I registered what had happened—hot wax arcing through the air, landing on my exposed forearm. The pain was immediate and intense, a burning brand against my skin.

I screamed, struggling against Eleanor's grip, but she held firm, forcing me to endure the burning agony as the wax cooled and hardened on my flesh.

My legs gave way, and I collapsed to my knees, Eleanor finally releasing me as I fell. Through tears of pain, I looked up at Marcus, silently pleading for help, for any sign that he recognized the monstrosity of what was happening.

He stood frozen, his face a mask of conflicted indecision, saying nothing as his wife sobbed on the floor of what should have been their child's sanctuary.

"You see?" Rebecca towered over me, her voice triumphant. "She's weak. Unworthy of carrying the Sterling name."

As I curled protectively around my belly, one thought crystallized through the haze of pain: These people would never love my child. And they would never own us.