I came home early with white roses, expecting to surprise my 7-month pregnant wife. Instead, I dropped them in h0rror. My elite mother and a hired nurse were lounging, eating fruit, while my weeping wife scrubbed her ble:eding arms with pure ble:ach on the floor…

Lauren rushed away. My mother followed. But Karen stayed where she was, gathering indignation like armor.

Emily finally looked up at me. What I saw in her eyes nearly emptied my lungs. Relief. Terror. And one final broken fear—that I might believe them over her.

“Did she force you to do this?” I asked quietly.

Emily’s eyes darted over my shoulder.

Before she could answer, Karen cut in. “Your wife has been extremely emotional. You know how women get in the final trimester. She said she felt dirty and insisted on cleaning herself. I was only supervising.”

I released Emily’s wrists and stood.

I rose slowly enough that the room seemed to lose all sound. When I turned to face Karen, she took half a step back.

“You were supervising,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“By calling her disgusting?”

Karen blinked.

“By telling her no one in this family would ever believe the word of an orphan?”

Her mask slipped.

Only for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

Lauren returned and wrapped the blanket around Emily’s shoulders. My mother came back with a towel and warm water, but she would not look at me.