Elaine Miller was still tidying her room when they summoned her to face Morgan Rose.

Morgan sat in the parlor, draped in an elegant silk gown, her makeup flawless. She rocked baby Zeke gently in her arms, not even sparing Elaine a glance. "Get on your knees," she commanded, her voice as cold as ice.

Elaine’s body went rigid, but she forced herself to lower her frame until her knees hit the cold floor. The Spencer household operated under a rigid, iron-fisted hierarchy, and as the eldest daughter-in-law, Morgan held absolute authority over the women of the estate.

Greta Spencer, the matriarch, had once shown Elaine favor, but that only fed Morgan’s paranoia. Now, Morgan invented any excuse to punish her, often resorting to physical discipline just to keep Elaine beneath her heel.

Elaine used to fight back, neck stiff with defiance, but those days were dead. She kept her gaze lowered, her voice barely a whisper. "Sister-in-law, what have I done wrong this time?"

Morgan let out a sharp, mocking laugh and pinched the infant in her arms, causing him to wail. "You dare ask? This bastard you birthed screams the moment he’s in my care. What kind of filth have you been feeding him?"

Even though she had been forced to distance herself from her own children, the sound of her baby being tormented tore at Elaine’s heart. She gasped, reaching out instinctively. "Please, Morgan, be gentle! He’s just a baby—it’s normal for him to cry—"

"Shut your mouth!" Morgan snapped. "I don’t need a lesson on parenting from the likes of you. Max, come here. Teach her some respect."

Elaine looked up, her blood running cold. A young boy walked toward her with a scowl that looked far too familiar. It was her own son, Max.

Without a second of hesitation, the boy raised his hand and struck Elaine across the face. "You wicked woman! How dare you show disrespect to Mother? Do you have any idea what you are?"

Max was only a child, but his strike was vicious. Elaine crumpled to the floor, her cheek burning with a searing, metallic heat. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in her chest.

This was her son. Her own flesh and blood.

"Again, Max," Morgan sneered, a triumphant light in her eyes. "I want her to understand that birthing a child means nothing here. I am the true mistress of the Spencer estate. No one can ever threaten my position."

Max didn’t hesitate. He swung again. And again.

The world blurred. A persistent ringing filled Elaine’s ears, and the taste of blood flooded her mouth. Through the haze, a familiar silhouette stepped into the room.

The sharp, clean lines of a tailored suit. The intimidating presence. It was Marcellus Spencer.

He watched in chilling silence as his own son beat his wife. He didn't lift a finger to stop it. Of course, he wouldn’t. When had Marcellus Spencer ever stood on her side?

She should have known better.

As a final, crushing blow landed against her jaw, the world turned to black, and Elaine collapsed onto the hard, unforgiving floor.

***

When she woke, she was back in the West Wing.

Marcellus sat on the edge of the bed, dabbing ointment onto her bruised face. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "If you were in that much pain, you could have asked for help instead of faking a faint. You terrified Max."

Elaine forced her eyes open, her voice raspy and broken. "I wasn't... faking."

Marcellus narrowed his eyes, his frustration momentarily muted by the sight of her battered state. "Fine, whatever you say. Morgan told me you tried to snatch the children again. That’s why she had to intervene. You were in the wrong. Tomorrow, you will apologize to her."

They had torn her children away from her, beaten her into unconsciousness, and now, he expected her to beg the perpetrator for forgiveness?

Bitterness surged in Elaine’s throat, sharp and suffocating. She stared into Marcellus’s eyes, desperate for a sliver of humanity. "I didn't try to take them. She was tormenting me."

Her voice trembled. "Morgan is your sister-in-law, but I am your wife. Marcellus, why—why do you only ever believe her, and never me?"

The raw, hollow grief in her gaze seemed to catch him off guard. He froze, his hand lingering over her cheek. Then, his expression hardened, turning back to granite.

"Must you make me say it?" he hissed. "A woman who would drug her own husband... why would anything you say be worth believing?"

Elaine went still, her entire body turning ice-cold, as if the very air in the room had turned to winter.