The last rays of evening light seeped through heavy curtains, casting weary stripes across the expensive Persian rug. The air in the drawing room, usually fragrant with rare flowers and fine perfume, felt thick and chargedheavy with the promise of a storm.
“Again, Catherine? Really, Edward, do you honestly expect me to babysit her?” Emily’s voice, usually soft and honeyed, trembled with suppressed fury. She stood in the center of the room, flawless in her silk dressing gown, carved like porcelain, her challenging glare fixed on her husband. “She has a nanny! And a grandmotheryour ex-wife! Why must I drop everything again?”
Edward, a man with silver at his temples and an unshakable posture, didnt look up from his papers. His calm was deceptivethe stillness before a tempest.
“Weve discussed this, Emily. Twice a month. Two Saturday evenings. Its not a request. Its the bare minimum you accepted when you became my wife. Margaret needs rest. And my ‘ex-wife,’ as you so delicately put it, lives in another county and rarely sees her granddaughter. Catherine is my blood. And, incidentally, Olivias daughter.”
He delivered the last words with a barely perceptible edge, but Emily felt it like a blade. That connectionit infuriated her most of all.
“Olivia” She scoffed bitterly. “The same Olivia who threw everything away, had a child with some nobody, and left you to clean up the mess?”
The words spilled out before she could stop them. Emily froze, biting her lip. A cold shiver ran down her spine. She watched as Edward slowly set down his papers and lifted his gazeheavy, utterly emotionless. The memory of six months ago flashed before her: Catherine spilling juice on the sofa, Emily grabbing her arm, screaming in her faceand then him appearing. No shouting, no theatrics. Just quietly taking Emilys wrist, his voice chillingly precise:
“If you lay a finger on her againif anything happens to her because of youI will break every one of your fingers. One by one. Do you understand?”
She had understood. Then, just as now, she knew: this man, who had lifted her from poverty and draped her in luxury, did not love her. He tolerated her. And she feared him. Terrifyingly, bone-deep. There was no escape. The thought of returning to that tiny flat, to her drunken parents, was worse than any punishment. She had locked herself in this gilded prison, and now her jailer was a little girl.
Emilys tone shifted instantly. Tears welled; her voice softened to syrup. “Eddie, Im sorry I didnt mean it. Im just exhausted. Ive waited weeks for this doctors appointmentI cant miss it.”
But Edward wasnt listening. He waved her off like a fly, his attention fixed on the doorway where a childs laughter rang out. There, in the playroom, Catherine sat on the floor with Nanny Margaret, stacking blocks. Edwards face transformedhardness melted into something tender, almost reverent. He scooped the girl up, spinning her in the air as she shrieked with delight, her arms around his neck.
Emily watched from the drawing room. Ice and venom twisted in her chest. She was an outsider here. Unnecessary. A decorative piece in a lavish home. And as long as Catherine existed, it would always be this way. A cold resolve hardened in her mind, forged by years of clawing her way up. *Dont worry,* she thought, addressing the child silently. *Tonight, we say goodbye, little obstacle.*
From youth, Emily had known exactly what she wanted. Beauty was her only weapon, her currency. While her friend Olivia dreamed of love and scribbled poetry, Emily studied lists of wealthy men. EdwardOlivias father, twenty-five years her seniorhad everything she craved: power, money, status.
Betrayal? The word meant nothing to her. She seduced her best friends father without hesitation. For Olivia, it was ruin. She left, vanished. A year later, Edward learned shed had a daughter. Four years after thatshe was gone. An accident.
Grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, Edward poured his love into the granddaughter hed found and brought home. Catherine became his world. And Emilyyoung, beautiful, his wifewas sidelined. The child was a living reminder of her treachery, the one obstacle to total control over her husband and his fortune. The obstacle had to go.
The plan was simple, brutal. First, preparation. Under a plausible pretext, Emily dismissed vigilant Nanny Margaret, replacing her with young Ninaa distracted university student glued to her phone. Exactly as intended.
That Saturday, while Edward was at a meeting, Emily watched from the window as Nina took Catherine to the playground. She waited. ThenNinas phone rang. The girl wandered off, chatting, leaving Catherine alone. Emily stepped outside, her smile saccharine.
“Cathy, darling, your grandfather asked me to take you somewhere magical. Shall we go?”
The girl, trusting “Auntie Em,” nodded eagerly. Minutes later, they were in the car. In the mirror, Emily saw Nina panicking, spinning in circles on the playground. Her smile turned vicious.
The drive was long. At first, Catherine watched the scenery with interest. Then came the whimpers. Then the sobs. “I want Grandad! Take me home!”
Emily turned up the radio, drowning her out. She drove for hours, the city fading behind them, the roads growing rougher, until at last, she stopped at the rusted gate of an abandoned churchyard. Ancient oaks cast grim shadows over overgrown graves.
She hauled the weeping child from the car. The air reeked of damp earth and decay.
“Were here,” Emily said. “This is your new home. Grandad wont find you. Goodbye.”
Catherine lunged for the car, but Emily shoved her back. The girl fell, wailing. To silence her, Emily slapped herhard. Catherine stilled, staring up with wide, terrified eyes. Emily got in the car, started the engine, and drove away without a glance. In the mirror, a tiny figure waved helplessly before vanishing around a bend. Emily pressed the accelerator.
For Beatrice, Saturdays were sacred. Every week, she visited the churchyard. Dressed simply in a dark frock, a scarf over her hair, she walked through the village, avoiding pitying glances. She needed neither sympathy nor empty words. This ritual was hers alone.
Twelve years ago, shed moved here. Her daughter, Sophie, aged ten, had been diagnosed with a rare bone disease. Doctors prescribed quiet and clean air. Her husband couldnt bear ithe left. Beatrice stayed.
At first, it was unbearable. She shut herself away, tending to her dying child. But the village wouldnt let her. Neighboursbustling Martha and quiet, kind Agnesbrought food, made her rest. Slowly, the ice in her heart thawed. She learned to accept help. Then, to give it. She understood: shared grief was lighter.
Seven years ago, Sophie passed. Many expected Beatrice to leavereturn to the city, leave this place behind. But she stayed. The village became home; its people, family. The grief didnt fadeit settled inside her, a quiet, constant sorrow woven into her days. She found solace in routine: tending her garden, helping neighbours, quiet evenings. She expected nothing moreonly comfort in caring for others.
Today, as ever, she walked to the churchyard. Martha stopped her, watering geraniums on her porch.
“Bea, off to the graves again?” she chided gently. “Rememberings right, but tormenting yourself weekly? Youll fret the poor childs souland your own. Let her rest. Shes at peace now.”
“Ill just sit awhile, Martha,” Beatrice murmured, smiling faintly. “Not long.”
She nodded and continueddown the narrow path to the old churchyard at the village edge, where beneath a spreading oak, her Sophie lay.
Approaching the grave, Beatrice froze. On the bench by the fence sat a little girl. Filthy, shivering, in a thin dressutterly lost. A fresh bruise bloomed on her cheek. She wasnt crying. Just whispering, staring at Sophies photo on the headstone. Beatrice strained to hear.
“…Ill sit with you, okay?” the girl murmured. “Youre Sophie, right? Auntie Em said this is my new home. But its so scary alone. With you, its less scary. You wont hit me, will you?”
Beatrices heart clenched. This frightened child, abandoned here, had sought solace in her daughters image. In a childs logic: the photo was a girlshed understand, protect, not hurt.
Carefully, Beatrice stepped forward. “Hello, love.”
The girl flinched, pressing into the bench, eyes wide with terror.
“Who are you? Are you going to hit me too?”
“Goodness, dearie, no.” Beatrices voice was warm, like when shed soothed Sophie.
