I felt a bile rise in my throat. The very sight of him made my skin crawl. I said nothing and brushed past them, heading upstairs.
That night, Alaric, who had never cared about my nighttime habits before, suddenly offered me a glass of milk.
“You’re in your third trimester now. You need more calcium and protein. Be good and drink it.”
I stared at the milky liquid. The smell was off—sweet, yet slightly metallic.
“I don’t want it.”
He forced a smile, trying to maintain the illusion of care.
“It’s for your own good—and the baby’s. Come on, be obedient.”
Then, without warning, he pressed the glass to my lips and poured it down my throat.
The moment the liquid touched my tongue, an overwhelming drowsiness overtook me. My vision blurred, and my limbs turned heavy. In the haze, I thought I saw shadows—people—moving around my bed.
By the time I woke up the next morning, my body was aching all over. I could barely sit up.
As soon as Alaric left for work, I reached under the bed and retrieved my phone. I had hidden a tiny camera inside the flower pot in the corner—just in case.
When I played the footage, shame and fury exploded inside me.