The storm raged outside the island manor, but inside, it was Caliste's voice that pierced the night.
Her cries of pain echoed through the heavy wooden doors of the delivery room, shattering Lucian's usual composure. He stood outside, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. He had faced enemies, betrayals, and wars for power without blinking—but this… hearing her pain and being unable to stop it, broke him in ways nothing else had.
Every cry felt like a blade to his heart. He pressed his palm against the wall, as though willing his strength through to her. "Hold on, Caliste… just hold on…" His voice was a low whisper, his throat tight.
Inside, the midwives and the doctor moved quickly. Caliste's body was trembling, sweat soaking her hair as she clutched the sheets. Her strength was fading, but her eyes burned with the will to bring her child safely into the world. With one final cry, her body gave way—and then, the sharp, beautiful wail of a newborn filled the air.
Lucian staggered forward, as though pulled by the sound. The door opened, and the doctor stepped out, his hands cradling a small, swaddled bundle. "She's sleeping now… exhausted. The child is strong."
Lucian's throat closed as he looked down at his heir—his child. The tiny fists, the small chest rising and falling with each breath. He took the baby into his arms with a reverence he hadn't known he was capable of. For a moment, his world narrowed to just this fragile life, and his own heart seemed to break open.
But behind that miracle was a silence. Caliste, unconscious, had not even glimpsed her child.
Hours later, when Caliste finally stirred awake, the room was quiet. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the hollow ache in her chest. Her hands reached instinctively for what wasn't there. Empty.
And then it struck her—she had signed away her right. The child was not hers to hold. Not hers to keep.
She turned her face into the pillow, and the tears came silently, endlessly. For days, she cried when no one was watching, her heart bleeding for the life she had carried but never touched. But as the days blurred together, her tears began to dry. She reminded herself again and again: she had chosen this. For her father's freedom. For the child's safety.
"This is Lucian's child," she whispered to herself, over and over until the words felt like stone in her throat.
With a trembling strength, Caliste began to rise each day, forcing herself to eat, to walk, to rebuild her body. Her heart might never heal, but her will to survive remained. She would not break—not now.
She pressed a hand against her stomach, now empty, and whispered into the stillness: "Be happy… even if I can't be there."
And with that, she steeled herself to begin again.
Three months had passed since Caliste gave birth, yet the island still felt like a gilded prison. The manor's wide verandas opened to endless stretches of sea, but no matter how beautiful, she could not escape the quiet weight pressing on her heart. Every night she dreamed of a child's cry she had never been allowed to soothe, a warmth she had never been allowed to hold.
One morning, as she was folding linens in her room to distract herself, a knock sounded at the door. A man in a white coat entered, flanked by two attendants. His polite smile did not reach his eyes.
"Miss Winslow," he said evenly, bowing slightly. "I am Doctor Elroy. I was sent here under Mr. Velmore's directive."
Caliste's brows furrowed. "For what reason?"
The doctor adjusted the spectacles on his nose. "To begin your post-pregnancy restoration program. A full regimen—nutritional adjustments, physical therapies, and if necessary, surgical intervention. The goal is to return your body to its pre-pregnancy state."
Her breath caught. The words struck like a knife. Pre-pregnancy state. As though carrying her child, enduring the pain, and the emptiness that followed had been nothing but a blemish to be erased.
"This… is in accordance with the clause you signed," the doctor continued, his tone neutral but firm. "Mr. Velmore ordered that every detail of your health and body be preserved—perfected, if I may say—before your release."
Caliste lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening on the fabric in her hands. Of course Lucian would think of everything. Even her body, reshaped and repaired, like a contract fulfilled. She had given away her child, and now even her scars would be erased as if the memory of her motherhood had never existed.
Inside, her heart twisted with both shame and defiance. He wants to return me to the Caliste Winslow he first claimed. A woman untouched. A doll without history.
She forced a calm tone, though her chest ached. "And if I refuse?"
The doctor blinked, slightly startled. "Miss Winslow, refusal is not an option. You signed your consent when the agreement was made. This is not merely for your health, but also for Mr. Velmore's peace of mind."
Peace of mind.
Her lips trembled, but she pressed them together until the weakness passed. She would endure. She always endured. Yet deep inside, a fire kindled—a quiet resentment she hadn't felt in months.
"I understand," she said finally, her voice even. "Do what you must."
But when the doctor left, Caliste sat at her vanity, staring into the mirror. Her reflection seemed unfamiliar—her eyes too hollow, her cheeks too pale. She touched her abdomen gently, where her child once grew, and whispered bitterly:
"They can erase the marks from my skin… but not the ones in my heart."
And for the first time since her labor, she allowed herself to sob—softly, brokenly—into her hands.