My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Child

The morning after the gala, I awoke to the sound of voices in the hallway outside my new quarters in the servants' wing. Through the thin walls, I could hear Madeline's melodic laugh echoing through the mansion.

"I simply adore this room," she cooed to someone. "The morning light is perfect for my skincare routine."

I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the throbbing headache that had followed me since last night's humiliation. The servants' quarters were a far cry from the master suite—the bed was narrow and stiff, the windows small and drafty.

A sharp crash from downstairs made me flinch. Then came Madeline's voice, high and panicked.

"Help! Someone help me!"

I rushed from my room, following the sound to the main living room. What I saw froze me in place.

Madeline sat on the floor amid the shattered remains of an antique Chinese vase—one of Damon's prized possessions. Blood dripped from a slice on her forearm, staining her pristine white blouse crimson.

"Oh my God," I whispered, moving toward her instinctively. "Let me help you—"

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, scrambling backward. "Haven't you done enough?"

Damon appeared in the doorway, his face contorted with rage as he took in the scene. "What happened?"

Madeline's eyes filled with tears—perfect, crystalline tears that somehow managed to make her look even more beautiful. "She attacked me," she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "I was just admiring the vase, and she... she said I didn't deserve to touch anything in your house."

"What? No!" I shook my head frantically. "I just got here. I didn't—"

"Enough!" Damon roared, his hands clenching into fists. "I've had enough of your lies!"

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my arm with bruising force. "You're jealous," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "You've always been jealous of Madeline."

"Damon, please," I whispered, my voice catching. "I would never hurt anyone."

But his eyes were wild, unfocused—his memory impairment making him susceptible to Madeline's manipulation. I could see the confusion behind his anger, the way he struggled to reconcile what he was seeing with what he thought he knew.

"Take her away," Madeline whimpered to someone behind us. "She scares me."

Damon's grip tightened as he dragged me toward the stairs. "You need to learn your place."

"Damon!" I gasped as he pulled me down the staircase, my legs barely keeping me upright. "You're hurting me!"

He didn't respond. His face was a mask of cold fury as he yanked me through the kitchen and down another flight of narrow stairs—the ones leading to the basement.

The door slammed open with a rusty screech, and cold, damp air rushed over me. The basement was dark except for a tiny window near the ceiling that let in a sliver of morning light.

"Perhaps a night down here will help you remember who you're dealing with," Damon growled, shoving me inside.

The door slammed shut with finality, and I heard the key turn in the lock. I sank to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest as the chill from the concrete seeped through my thin nightgown.

Hours passed. The basement grew darker as day turned to evening. I developed a fever—my skin burning one moment, shaking with chills the next. My throat ached with each shallow breath.

I crawled to the tiny window, pressing my palm against the cold glass. Outside, I could see the garden stretching toward the iron gate that separated the mansion from the rest of the world. Freedom lay just beyond that gate, but it might as well have been on another planet.

A soft scraping sound at the door startled me. It creaked open just enough for someone to slip inside.

"Miss Elisabeth," James whispered, his weathered face creased with concern. "Are you alright?"

"James," I croaked, my voice barely audible. "How did you—"

"I have the spare key," he explained, helping me to sit up. From inside his jacket, he produced a small bottle of pills and a thermos. "Mr. Lewis sent these. Antibiotics for your fever."

"Aaron?" My heart swelled at the mention of his name.

James nodded grimly as he wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders. "He's been watching the house since last night. Said he couldn't stand by anymore."

"Thank you," I whispered, clutching the blanket. "But Madeline will tell Damon—"

"Miss Madeline and her mother have taken control of Mr. Mitchell's journals," James interrupted, his voice dropping even lower. "They're rewriting his memories, making him believe things that aren't true."

The implications sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with my fever. If Madeline could manipulate Damon's written records...

"What else have they done?" I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

James glanced nervously at the door. "More than you realize, Miss Elisabeth. Much more."