The faint scent of lavender hung in the air like a cruel memory.
Rameena Callahan-Stirling lay sprawled on the cold marble floor of her en-suite bathroom, her body shuddering uncontrollably. Sweat beaded on her forehead as her nightgown clung damply to her skin. Every breath she drew felt like knives slicing through her chest.
This wasn't the first time she'd collapsed. For months now, her body had been betraying her piece by piece.
At first, it was small things—fatigue that left her sleeping through Alexander's cries, dizzy spells while walking down the grand staircase of the Sterling mansion, and the disturbing clumps of hair she found tangled in her hairbrush. She had laughed it off, chalking it up to postpartum stress.
Michael had seemed so caring then. So patient.
"You're overworking yourself, darling," he said one morning over coffee, his sapphire cufflinks catching the sun. "You need to rest more. Elliot, make sure she eats something light for lunch."
Elliot, ever the perfect butler, would give his polite bow and bring her a steaming cup of herbal tea—always chamomile, with a faint lemony note she couldn't quite place.
She had trusted them.
But looking back now, she saw it all—the lies woven into the silk of her perfect life.
---
There had been a time when she believed she was living a fairytale.
The day she married Michael Sterling in a cathedral lit with a thousand candles, she had thought herself the luckiest woman alive. He had been everything a man should be—handsome, charismatic, heir to one of England's oldest fortunes.
When he slipped the diamond ring onto her finger and kissed her before a sea of applauding guests, she had thought her future was set.
How could she have been so blind?
---
The cracks had appeared slowly.
First, Michael started working late. Then he stopped answering her calls, claiming endless board meetings.
Her old friends had begun to drift away too, their invitations growing less frequent. She had tried to keep up appearances—hosting charity luncheons, posing for glossy magazine spreads—but the mansion felt colder with each passing week.
Even Alexander couldn't fill the emptiness entirely. She remembered clutching her son to her chest one night, whispering softly into his fine baby hair.
"It's okay, my little prince. Mama will keep us safe. Always."
But even as she said it, she felt the first seed of doubt.
The staff had started acting strange—hushed conversations in the hallways, guarded glances when she entered a room. Elliot, who once seemed almost fatherly, had begun hovering too close, always watching, his blue eyes unreadable.
She had tried to reach out.
One rainy afternoon, she called her childhood friend Eloise.
"Rameena," Eloise had said after a long pause. "I don't know how to help. Maybe… maybe you're imagining things? You're under a lot of stress." The pity in her tone cut deeper than knives. Even she didn't believe her.
---
Now, as Rameena lay dying on the bathroom floor, every memory felt sharp and raw. She could hear Alexander's soft babble from the nursery down the hall.
Her boy. Her light. Her reason.
She tried to drag her body toward the door, her fingernails scraping weakly at the marble tiles. But her muscles refused to cooperate. The sound of polished shoes clicking against marble made her freeze.
Michael stood in the doorway. His tailored Armani suit was flawless as ever, his expression calm.
"Michael…" Her voice cracked, her lips sticky with blood.
"You figured it out."
"Why?"
He walked closer, crouching so their faces were level. The scent of his cologne made her stomach churn.
"You were perfect for a time," he said softly. "But grandfather's gone now. And so is your usefulness."
Elliot appeared behind him like a shadow, his hands clasped behind his back.
Rameena's heart pounded.
"You…" she whispered. "It was you all along."
Elliot's polite smile never faltered. "I simply followed orders."
Michael smoothed a hand over his crisp lapel. "They'll say it was a tragic illness. A devoted wife and mother taken too soon. I'll cry at your funeral." Her vision blurred, but anger surged in her chest.
"You'll… pay…"
Michael leaned closer, his voice low and cruel. "You don't have the power to make me pay."
Rameena's nails dug into the tiles.
Not now, perhaps. But someday. Somehow.
Her breath came slower, weaker. Her last thought was of Alexander—his chubby hands reaching for her, his giggle ringing in her ears.
"I'll come back," she whispered hoarsely.
Michael rose smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "Doubtful."
The last sound she heard was Elliot's faint chuckle and the door clicking shut behind them.
Then—silence.
"This isn't over. I'll rise again, even if I have to claw my way back from nothing."