Painful Reminder

The morning sun peeped gently through the thick velvet curtains of the estate, casting a soft golden hue across the floor. A faint breeze carried the scent of jasmine from the garden through the half-open window. It was a Saturday, calm and quiet. The kind of morning that almost deceived the heart into believing that everything was alright.

Amara sat at the edge of her bed, eyes wide open but lost in thought. Sleep had barely visited her that night. The truth was still echoing in her bones, Ethan and Jose, her children. Her own sons, torn from her womb during that horrific cult ritual ten years ago. Dora's words still haunted her like shadows behind every thought: "They are yours, born of blood, stolen by power."

She wiped her face, inhaled slowly, and rose. Her legs carried her, almost by instinct, down the long hallway. Her bare feet padded quietly against the cool marble. She hesitated at the door to the children's room. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob before she finally turned it.

The room smelled of soap, pencils, and childhood. Toys were neatly arranged by the wall. The sun spilled across the beds, bathing the space in warmth. Jose was already awake, sitting up and hugging his pillow. Ethan snored softly on the other bed.

"Good morning," she said, voice soft.

Jose turned. "Morning, Miss Amara. You're up early."

Amara smiled. Her heart was full and aching all at once. She walked in slowly and sat on the bed beside Jose. The warmth of his body, the curve of his cheek, even the way his fingers tugged at his shirt, he was hers. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jose said, with a grin. "I had a dream I was flying. Like...like really flying. You were there too. You said I could go wherever I wanted."

Her eyes welled with tears. She managed a smile. "Sounds like a good dream."

Then, as he sat up, his shorts lifted slightly and something caught her eye. A small mark, crescent-shaped, on his left thigh.

Her breath caught. That mark.

She slowly reached out and brushed his leg lightly.

"That's funny," she whispered. "I have that mark too."

Jose blinked. "You do?"

"Yes... It's a family mark," she said before realizing what she'd revealed.

Jose tilted his head. "Then... are we family?"

Amara laughed quickly, too quickly. "Oh, silly boy. It's probably just a coincidence."

But the tears betrayed her. They slid down her face, uninvited.

"Are you okay?" Jose asked, alarmed. "Did I do something wrong?"

She wiped her eyes and smiled weakly. "No, sweetheart. Something flew into my eyes, that's all."

"Oh..." Jose nodded, still watching her curiously.

She gave his hand a little squeeze and stood. "You should wake your brother. Breakfast will be ready soon."

She stepped out before the tears drowned her again.

Back in her room, Amara closed the door and leaned against it. Her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor. Memories stormed her, heavy and fast.

The dining room, her laughter. Magnus's booming voice. Elias beside her, always watching, always smiling. She had cooked for them, like a daughter, a wife, a mistress. They had dined together like family. Then Magnus had turned. From protector to predator. From father figure to executioner.

Her sobs were quiet but deep. She held her stomach, the same womb that once bore Ethan and Jose, and now, thanks to Dora, had returned to her.

Then came a different kind of memory. One that burned differently.

The west wing. That room with the blue curtains and ivory rug.

She had sat there once, laughing, sipping wine. Elias entered. His hands were cold, his breath warm. They didn't speak much that night. He kissed her. Slow, then hungry. He sucked her nipples like it was the only thing he craved. He whispered that she was his forever.

She remembered how Elias kissed her breasts in a hurried intimacy. His tongue traced her chest, his favorite part. He knelt, his fingers exploring her, igniting her desire until she shuddered in climax. 

Then, he entered her, their bodies entwined as she arched toward him. The memory surged back, vivid and raw. Amara jolted, overwhelmed, and wept anew. She had climaxed with his name in her mouth, her body trembling beneath his.

It was in that very room, by that very window, that she now sat. Ten years later. Alive, yet not the same.

Why hadn't Elias replaced her? No new woman. No wife. Not even a rumor.

Why?

She knew Elias. He loved physical intimacy. So who had filled that gap? Or had he mourned her in silence for a decade?

Her heart twisted. Maybe, just maybe, he still loved her.

A soft knock pulled her back.

"Come in," she said, quickly wiping her eyes.

Flora entered, her eyes curious, her smile careful. Young, bright, and always full of chatter, Flora was the one person Amara had come to trust in the estate.

"You alright, ma'am?" Flora asked, walking in with grace. "You've been quiet all morning."

Amara nodded. "Just thinking."

Flora sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her skirt neatly beneath her. "Well, I came to gossip. That always helps with thinking."

Amara chuckled. "What are you up to now?"

Flora leaned in. "There's something I overheard last night. Don't panic, okay? But I thought you should know."

Amara's breath caught.

"What is it?"

"Elias was in the study. I was passing by and heard him say to someone on phone he wanted a full background check on you. Said there's something about you that... unsettles him."

Amara looked down, then managed a smile. "Well, that makes sense. He's a billionaire. He has to be careful."

"Still," Flora said, frowning, "you're so nice. And the boys adore you. I just hope this doesn't change anything."

"It won't," Amara lied.

Inside, she was burning.

She stood up and walked to the window. Her hands trembled.

Dora had been right. Everything had been polished, her past erased, her story crafted, her identity sealed in glamour and spell.

But Elias, Elias had instincts.

She turned to Flora. "Thank you. Don't tell anyone else you heard this."

"I won't," Flora said. "You can trust me."

Amara nodded. Then looked out the window again.

The children were out in the garden now. Playing and laughing.

Time was ticking.

She had to begin the destruction; the legacy had to crumble. She had to reach the west wing, the secret vault. She has to uncover the secrets, the curses and the truth.

Everything began there. And it would end there.

She turned from the window, her jaw tight, eyes fixed. "December 28th," she muttered. 

Just then, Flora leaned in, whispering, "I have something else to tell you," before slipping out of the room.