Standing before the Spencer Memorial Chapel, Elaine Miller fixed her gaze on Marcellus. "I didn't touch her."

"I know," Marcellus sighed, his tone dismissive. "I’m not blind to such clumsy theatrics. And Morgan isn't the type to be bullied by you."

"But she is the lady of the Spencer estate, and she has to maintain her authority over the staff. I can’t let her lose face. Just be a good girl, sit in the chapel for a while, and let this blow over."

"Be obedient. I’ll make it up to you."

*Make it up to me.*

He had said those words so many times before. When he took her three children away. When he stood by and watched Morgan torment her. When he had her committed to a mental institution.

Elaine’s voice trembled. "Can you ever stand by me? Even once? Just once?"

Marcellus’s face darkened. "Do as you're told."

Elaine closed her eyes, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. Why did she still hope for anything else?

She didn't look at him again. She walked straight into the cold, dark chapel.

The heavy door slammed shut and the bolt slid home. The room was suffocatingly dark. Elaine knelt on the wooden bench, her body aching with exhaustion until she drifted into a restless, lightheaded sleep.

She didn't know how much time had passed when the door groaned open. A group of burly housekeepers led by Karla Mendoza stepped in.

"Mr. Spencer’s orders," Karla said, her face devoid of emotion. "Since you used your nails to harm the mistress, we’re to remove them."

Elaine’s eyes widened in horror. "You're insane! Let me out! I want to speak to him directly!"

"Sorry," Karla said. At a flick of her hand, the other women swarmed forward, pinning Elaine down against the cold stone floor.

Karla pulled out a pair of heavy-duty pliers. She clamped onto Elaine’s manicured nail and ripped it back with a violent, sickening crack.

"AHHH!"

The agony was blinding. Elaine’s scream ripped through the silent chapel, a primal sound of raw, unadulterated suffering.

Karla didn't blink. She moved to the next finger.

One by one, the pliers tore through flesh and nail. Elaine’s long, slender fingers were soon reduced to a pulpy, blood-soaked mess. She drifted in and out of consciousness, caught in a cycle of torture that felt eternal. When the housekeepers finally tossed the pliers aside and left, the room reeked of iron and copper.

Elaine lay crumpled on the floor, a broken, shivering heap.

*No. I can’t die here. Get to a doctor. Find help.*

She dragged herself toward the exit, her raw fingertips leaving long, jagged smears of blood across the floorboards. Using every ounce of her fading willpower, she stumbled her way back toward the West Wing.

She hadn't even reached the door when she heard familiar voices drifting from inside.

"Marcellus, you know I’m not actually infertile. I just don't want to bring another life into this house yet. If you want, I’m willing to give you a child of our own..."

Marcellus’s voice was cold, clipped. "Don't talk nonsense. Childbirth is agonizing. You don't have the constitution for it like Elaine does. Why put yourself through that?"

He paused, then added, "Besides... I only want a child from her."

Morgan let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Don't pretend, Marcellus. I know you only say that to make me feel better. You were the one who drugged her all those years ago, just so I could take her place as the lady of the house."

"I just feel sorry for you," Morgan cooed, "having to spend your whole life with a woman you don't love."

Marcellus’s brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "Elaine is fine. Living with her isn't the worst fate. Besides, seven years ago, I thought she was being too clingy, so I laid a few traps for the Miller family to make her fall in line. I didn't expect it to cost her parents their lives. I suppose I owe her that much."

Thunder cracked like a whip, and the sky opened up, pouring rain onto the estate.

Outside the door, Elaine’s mind went blank. She staggered backward, her legs giving out as she collapsed into a muddy puddle.

What had she just heard?

*He* had drugged her.

*He* had forced her parents to their deaths.

She had spent half her life loving this man. Every ounce of that devotion, every year of her life—it was all nothing more than a sick, pathetic joke.