Chapter 4

The air in the room was so heavy it felt like it could crush her lungs.

Edward stood in the doorway, his knuckles pale, veins standing out along the back of his hand from the effort of holding himself back. He stared at the woman kneeling on the floor, her face twisted into a strange, brittle smile that made his chest burn with a rage so sharp it stripped away the last shred of his restraint.

"Don't smile at me." His voice was a roar that echoed down the empty hallway. He turned as if to leave, but his eyes caught on the crystal music box sitting on the nightstand—the one Anne had made herself, the first birthday gift she had ever given him.

Edward crossed the room in two strides, grabbed it, and smashed it against the floor without hesitation. The shattering glass rang out like a gunshot.

"You don't get to smile in her room."

Victoria flinched at the sound, her body jerking as though the blow had landed on her instead. The fragile smile vanished, leaving only a hollow stillness.

Edward looked down at her from above, his voice colder than the wind off the sea. "Tell me, Victoria… why wasn't it you who died?"

The words were a rusted blade driven straight into an old wound, twisting until it tore something deep inside her.

"Yes… why wasn't it me…" she whispered. It was a question she had asked God more times than she could count.

Edward didn't give her the chance to say more. He cast one last glance around the room—this room he now considered defiled—then turned and walked out. The door slammed shut behind him, sealing her in darkness and cutting off every trace of warmth.

The shadows closed in again.

She stayed kneeling on the cold floor, her eyes locked on the enormous wedding portrait hanging on the wall. In the photo, Anne's smile was gentle, radiant with a happiness that seemed untouchable.

Victoria's hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers hovering just above the glass frame. She couldn't bring herself to touch it. She felt too filthy.

Her hands were stained with Anne's blood. Her body still carried the weight of Edward's violence. And now she was occupying the room that should have been Anne's sanctuary.

How could she ever deserve it?

"I'm sorry…" she whispered.

Curling in on herself, she pressed her forehead to the floor. Her tears seeped into the carpet without a sound.

Her mind drifted to a memory from long ago—on the yacht, Anne leaning against the railing as the sea wind lifted her hair, turning to smile at her. "Victoria, you have to find your own happiness, you hear me?"

The sunlight had been warm then.

But now, Victoria had stolen the happiness that should have belonged to Anne. She was nothing but a sinner.

The thought was a stone on her chest, crushing the breath from her lungs.

That night, she was trapped in an endless nightmare.

In her dreams, she was back in the abandoned warehouse: the faces of the kidnappers twisted with malice, the flash of a blade, and Anne's eyes—filled with resolve—before she ran toward danger. The scenes replayed over and over in her head.

She woke from each nightmare drenched in cold sweat, curling into the farthest corner of the massive wedding bed.

Everywhere she looked, the room was steeped in Anne's presence—her perfume lingering in the air, her belongings arranged exactly as she had left them. Each reminder drove Victoria's guilt deeper until it felt unbearable.

She kept her eyes open until dawn. Not a single second of sleep.

By morning, she was like a broken doll, huddled at the foot of the bed, her eyes bloodshot and fixed on nothing.

A knock broke the silence.

The door opened, and an older maid stepped inside. She was one of the few in the household who had never spoken to Victoria with cruelty.

"Ma'am," the maid said softly, carrying a tray. There was a note of pity in her voice. "You haven't eaten all day."

Victoria's pupils contracted sharply.

On the tray was a freshly baked blueberry pie. The deep purple filling oozed from the flaky crust, releasing a sweet, rich scent.

It had been Anne's favorite.

But now, the sight of it made Victoria's stomach turn.

The purple filling seemed to warp before her eyes, shifting into clotted red blood.

A memory flashed—Anne laughing as she fed her a bite of pie. "Open your mouth, Victoria. This is the best you'll ever taste."

The next moment, the image shifted to Anne's chest, blood welling up in thick, dark streams—just as viscous, just as red.

The nausea hit her like a wave.

"Take it away!" Victoria's scream tore through the room. Her body moved faster than her thoughts; she shoved the tray aside with a violent motion.

The porcelain plate shattered against the floor, splintering into jagged pieces. Blueberry filling splattered across the carpet, leaving stains that seemed to glow in the dim light.

The maid gasped and stepped back in shock.

Victoria was breathing hard, clutching her head, her whole body trembling uncontrollably.

She hadn't meant to do it.

She was just… too afraid.

Dropping to her knees, she scrambled to gather the shards. "I'm sorry… I didn't… I just—"

Her fingers brushed against a sharp edge. Blood welled instantly, crimson drops mixing with the blueberry filling until it was impossible to tell which was which.

The metallic scent of blood spread through the room, and Victoria froze, staring at the mess like a child who had broken something beyond repair.

Her voice was flat, almost mechanical, as she kept repeating the same words. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Then came the sound of footsteps in the hall—heavy, deliberate.

Each step landed on her nerves like a hammer.

Edward appeared in the doorway.

He looked as though he had just risen from bed, his shirt hanging open to reveal the hard lines of his chest. But his face was shadowed with something far darker.

His gaze swept over the trembling maid before settling on the wreckage on the floor.

The smashed pie—the breakfast Anne had loved most.

The air turned to ice.

Edward strode into the room, his polished shoes crunching down on a shard of porcelain with a sound sharp enough to make teeth ache.

He looked at Victoria, at the blood on her hands, and there was no pity in his eyes—only the fury of a man guarding something sacred.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice wasn't loud, but it pressed down on her like a weight.

Victoria lifted her head, her face ghost-pale, her lips trembling as she tried to explain. "Edward, I… I didn't mean to… I just saw it—"

"It disgusted you?" Edward cut her off, his mouth twisting into something cruel. "Because it was something Anne loved, you decided to throw it on the floor like trash?"

"No… no, that's not it…" Victoria shook her head frantically, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Anne loved blueberry pie. How could I hate it? I just… I remembered her—"

"Shut up." Edward's hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with a force that made her bones ache.

He hauled her upright, forcing her to look at the stain on the carpet.

"You remembered her? You dare to remember her?" His eyes were bloodshot, his voice almost a snarl. "Victoria, stop pretending you care. What gives you the right to despise anything she loved?"

"If you won't learn to hold your tongue…" His grip tightened, the threat clear in his voice. "I have no problem teaching you myself."