This time, Elaine Miller swallowed the agony of ten months of morning sickness and the soul-shattering pain of an unmedicated labor. She didn’t even argue when her husband announced he was handing their newborn over to his sister-in-law, Morgan Rose.

Instead, dragging her frail body across the floor, she knelt before Greta Spencer.

"Greta, it’s been seven years," Elaine whispered, her voice like grinding gravel. "Please. Just let me go."

Greta, her fingers pausing on the string of prayer beads she constantly turned, flicked her gaze over Elaine’s gaunt, hollowed-out face. "Don’t blame Marcellus. The Spencer family lineage is paramount. He’s only giving the baby to Morgan to secure her position in this house."

Elaine kept her head bowed. "I wouldn't dare blame him. But we had an agreement—when the time came, he would give me my freedom."

Greta sighed. "Is it really that urgent? What about your three children? Do you mean to just abandon them?"

Elaine’s body shuddered, a pale, lifeless smile pulling at her lips. "I don’t dare look after them anymore."

Three years ago, after a grueling night of a difficult labor, she had given birth to her second child, Maisie.

Marcellus had immediately ordered a maid to hand the infant over to Morgan.

Elaine, her complexion ashen, had clung to her daughter, screaming until her throat bled. "She’s mine! She’s my daughter!"

Marcellus hadn't even bothered to change out of his suit. His lips were pressed into a thin, merciless line, his eyes as cold as if he were watching a tantrum-throwing toddler. "I told you, Morgan is the eldest daughter-in-law. She’s naturally infertile and needs a child to hold her standing. Be a good girl, Elaine. We can always have more."

Elaine trembled violently, her voice thick with despair. "My son is already with her! Isn’t that enough?"

"A son and a daughter," Marcellus replied with detached indifference. "A perfect balance."

Elaine had snapped. She lunged, claws out, shrieking, only to be pinned down by guards while she watched them carry her daughter away. She hadn't given up, though. Under the cover of darkness, she stole the baby back, sprinting toward the gates of the neighboring estate.

Just as she was about to step past the perimeter, a boy’s voice shattered the night. "That woman stole my sister! Grab her!"

Elaine felt the blood drain from her entire body. She turned to find her eldest son, Max, standing there. His face was angelic, but his eyes were filled with nothing but pure, unadulterated disgust.

He had summoned the security team. They dragged her away.

Marcellus claimed she had suffered a mental breakdown and threw her into a private psychiatric facility to "reflect." She was subjected to the full extent of the house's cruelty: beatings, electroshock therapy, and a cocktail of mind-numbing medication.

Elaine learned her lesson. She stopped dreaming of the children she had nearly died to bring into the world.

Greta, clearly recalling the same events, offered a sliver of pity. "Seven years ago, a fortune teller said you would bring luck to your husband. That’s why the Spencers saved you and brought you into this family. Who could have known it would come to this?" She paused, her gaze softening. "Fine. I’ll arrange for you to go abroad. The visa will take a month. Get some rest."

Elaine bowed her head until it hit the floor with a dull thud. She didn't rise until she was sure, then made her slow, agonizing way back to the West Wing.

She crossed paths with Marcellus just as he was holding the newborn, awkwardly jiggling the infant. The man who usually wore an armor of cold indifference looked almost human, his voice unnaturally gentle.

Seeing Elaine, he didn't even look up. "Morgan picked a nickname for the baby. Zeke."

Her child. And yet, someone else was naming him, someone else was being called "Mother."

Elaine’s chest tightened, a sharp, suffocating pressure. Her voice came out raspy. "The first time you took my child, it was for a son. The second time, it was for the ‘perfect balance.’ What about this time?"

Marcellus dismissed her concern with a flick of his wrist. "Morgan complained that Max was getting too rambunctious. She wanted a more obedient son." He looked up, his expression unreadable. "I’m taking Zeke over to her now. Do you want to say goodbye?"

He was prepared for the tears, the begging, the desperate pleas—the usual performance she put on every time. He’d already prepared his script of calm, cold dismissals.

But this time, Elaine simply took half a step back and lowered her eyes. "No need. I’m sure my sister-in-law will take good care of him."

Marcellus’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face. "This is your child. Are you really that heartless?"

Elaine bit back the tears, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't worry. I won't fight with my sister-in-law over the children again."

The half-healed scars beneath her clothes pulsed with a dull, rhythmic ache—a permanent reminder of what happened when she disobeyed. She didn't dare fight anymore.

Marcellus wanted to say more, but his phone buzzed; Morgan was calling, impatient for the delivery.

He gave a short nod and stepped out. Glancing back, he caught a glimpse of Elaine sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked so thin, so fragile, as if a gust of wind would shatter her. Her skin was as white as parchment.

For a split second, his heart faltered. His voice softened, dripping with the hollow promise of a predator. "I promise this is the last time. You can raise the next one yourself."

Elaine didn't answer. She just looked down, tapping a message to a friend overseas, asking them to help her find an apartment.

Marcellus didn't know the truth. There wouldn't be a "next time."

She was leaving.