The world no longer whispers.
It screams.
Every screen, every headline, every murmured conversation carries the same name now, Damian White, followed by a word that feels like a knife pushed slowly into my chest.
Murderer.
I don't need to turn on the television to know. I don't need to scroll through my phone. The estate itself tells me everything. The way the air shifts when I step near a window. The way footsteps quicken when someone notices my door. The way silence thickens, heavy and deliberate, like a warning.
I am no longer Jade White.
I am the murderer's wife.
I stay in my room.
Days blur into each other, stitched together by exhaustion and numbness. The curtains remain drawn. Light feels intrusive. Sound feels aggressive. Even my own breathing feels too loud in the quiet house. I lie on the bed most of the time, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that weren't there before, wondering when the walls started feeling like they were closing in.
My phone vibrates endlessly on the bedside table.
Amanda.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I let it ring.
I don't have the strength to answer. I don't trust my voice not to break apart into something unrecognizable. Right now, silence feels safer than words. Silence doesn't ask questions I can't answer. Silence doesn't look at me with pity.
Silence is the only thing that hasn't betrayed me yet.
On the fourth morning, my body refuses to stay curled up any longer. Hunger claws weakly at my stomach, but it feels distant, unimportant. What finally gets me out of bed isn't hunger.
It's the weight.
The unbearable pressure sitting on my chest, telling me that if I don't move, I might never move again.
I walk to the front door like a stranger in my own home.
When I open it, the envelope is waiting.
White. Clean. Neatly placed on the floor, like a gift.
My hands shake as I pick it up. I don't know why I already feel like crying before I even open it. Maybe some part of me already knows.
Inside is a single sheet of paper.
Three lines.
Three sentences.
No signature.
No name.
Just truth sharpened into cruelty.
We won.
Got you.
Got you.
Got you.
My knees buckle.
I don't remember sinking to the floor, but suddenly the marble tiles are cold against my skin. My fingers crumple the paper instinctively, as if destroying it might erase the words burned into my mind.
This isn't coincidence.
This isn't fate.
This is someone watching me drown, and smiling while I do.
Anger flares, sharp and sudden, but it doesn't last. It drains out of me just as quickly, leaving behind something hollow. Something empty. I am tired of fighting enemies I cannot see. Tired of trying to be strong when strength keeps getting punished.
I don't cry.
I don't scream.
I just sit there until the sun climbs higher and the paper in my hand feels damp from sweat.
Eventually, I stand.
I leave the house.
The mall is crowded, loud, alive, everything I am not. As I walk through the entrance, conversations dip, then resume in hushed tones. I feel eyes on me, sliding over my face, my clothes, my hands. Recognition spreads fast. Faster than fire.
"Is that her?"
"That's her."
"My God, imagine being married to someone like that."
I keep my head high.
I don't stop walking.
I pretend the words don't slice through me, even when they do. Even when my chest tightens and my hands feel numb. I pick items from shelves I don't need, place them in a basket I don't care about. I stand in front of mirrors without really seeing my reflection.
I am a ghost pretending to be alive.
That's when a small body collides gently with my legs.
I look down.
Lily.
She beams up at me, eyes bright, innocent, untouched by the poison swallowing the adults around her. For a second, something inside me softens. I smile before I can stop myself.
"Hello," I whisper.
She giggles.
I kneel slightly, lifting my hand to brush her hair,
"Lily!"
Barbara's voice cuts through the air like glass shattering.
She rushes forward, panic written all over her face, and yanks Lily back so abruptly the child stumbles. Barbara's arms wrap around her daughter like a shield, her breathing uneven, her eyes wide.
As if I am the danger.
The rejection stings more than I expect.
"Why would you do that?" I ask, my voice low but firm. "I wasn't hurting her."
Barbara doesn't answer.
She can't.
Her fear is wrong. Misplaced. Too intense. It isn't the fear of someone avoiding scandal. It's the fear of someone standing too close to the truth.
Our eyes meet for a split second.
And I see it.
Guilt.
Then she turns and walks away, dragging Lily with her.
I don't follow.
But something settles deep in my bones.
When I drive back to the estate, I see Mrs. Alexander standing outside her mansion. She lifts a hand in greeting, her face cautious, uncertain.
I drive past her.
I don't slow down.
I don't look back.
Trust feels like a luxury I can no longer afford.
Inside my house, silence greets me again. I move through familiar rooms like an intruder, touching things just to remind myself they're real. I cook something simple, though I barely eat. I shower, letting the water run too hot, hoping it might burn something out of me.
But the unease doesn't leave.
It grows.
I hear it first, a soft sound near the back door.
My heart stutters.
I tell myself it's nothing. Pipes. Wind. Imagination. But my body doesn't believe the lies my mind tells it.
I walk toward the door.
Open it.
Nothing.
The darkness outside stares back at me, empty and quiet. I shut the door and turn away,
The sound comes again.
Louder.
Insistent.
My breath catches as I reach for the handle once more.
The door swings open.
A girl stands there.
Her hair is matted with blood. It streaks down her face, pooling at her chin. Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and unblinking.
She smiles.
And laughs.
A high, broken sound that rips through me.
I scream, the
And bolt upright in bed.
My body is drenched in sweat. My heart slams violently against my ribs, like it's trying to escape. My hands shake uncontrollably. I clutch my chest, gasping, trying to breathe, trying to ground myself.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
But my body doesn't know that.
The panic doesn't stop. The room spins. My vision blurs. I fumble for my phone, my fingers barely obeying me.
Amanda.
I call her.
I don't even know what I say. Words spill out broken, incoherent. I tell her I'm not okay. That something's wrong. That I can't breathe.
She doesn't ask questions.
She just says, "I'm coming."
The last thing I remember is the ceiling tilting sideways.
Then nothing.
When I wake up, the first thing I see is white.
Hospital white.
The second thing I see is Amanda's face, pale and terrified, sitting beside my bed. Relief crashes over me so hard my throat tightens.
"You fainted," she says softly.
A doctor comes in, speaks calmly about stress, trauma, exhaustion. I barely listen. Then he pauses.
"Didn't you know?" he asks.
Know what?
He looks at the chart.
"You're eight weeks pregnant."
The words echo.
Pregnant.
The room goes quiet.
Everything else disappears.
Damian.
Prison.
Death.
Fear.
All of it fades into the background as a single truth settles over me like thunder.
There is a life growing inside me.
And nothing will ever be the same again.