The humid air of the Lancaster estate clung to my skin like a second layer, thick with the perfume of expensive jasmine and the manicured cut of freshly trimmed grass, but beneath it all, it reeked of decay

The humid air of the Lancaster estate clung to my skin like a second layer, thick with the perfume of expensive jasmine and the manicured cut of freshly trimmed grass, but beneath it all, it reeked of decay—the kind of rot that seeps into the bones of a dying dynasty. I was six months pregnant, the weight of the Lancaster heir pressing down on my back, a constant, throbbing ache, and yet even that familiar physical burden paled against the icy terror that curled in my chest when I saw her: Patricia Lancaster. She didn’t carry the softness of a grandmother-to-be, nor the warmth that family photographs might suggest. No, she stood in the designer kitchen with a predatory grace, silver hair gleaming like polished steel, holding a Rowenta steam iron that hissed as if it were alive, as if it were sensing the blood it wanted to scorch.

“You think you’re special because you’ve got Christopher’s seed in you?” Patricia’s words were a low, jagged whisper, each syllable slicing through the air like a knife. Her eyes, sharp as obsidian, bore into mine, stripping away every fragile layer of courage I had cobbled together. “You’re a weed, Kaylee. A common Riverside waitress who thought she could bloom in a marble garden. But weeds get pulled. Or, in your case… they get cauterized.”

My hands scraped desperately against the cool granite of the countertop as I tried to retreat, but Amanda, my sister-in-law—the one I had once thought my only ally in this gilded cage of a family—was suddenly there, her grip locking around my arms with a strength I hadn’t realized she possessed. Jealousy had twisted her into a stranger, one who obeyed her mother-in-law with a devotion that chilled me to my core.

“Hold her still, Amanda,” Patricia commanded, her voice smooth, composed, almost regal, as though she were preparing to perform a ritual rather than commit an atrocity. “Let’s see if this ‘cursed blood’ survives a little heat.”

The iron hovered, radiant waves of molten air distorting the space between us. My scream erupted—raw, primal, a mother’s cry for the life she carried—but it did nothing to sway Amanda, who leaned into my ear. “You were never one of us, Kaylee. You’re just a parasite.”