Lost Baby, New Henry's Fury

The weeks following that disastrous dinner passed in a blur of tension and unspoken resentment. I spent most of my time in our bedroom, the door no longer locked but my spirit increasingly confined. The memory of Ashton's hand gripping my wrist, his command to "humor" Mikayla, played on repeat in my mind.

One morning, I woke to find Mikayla in our kitchen, humming cheerfully as she prepared what smelled like herbal tea.

"Good morning, Alana," she greeted me with a saccharine smile. "I've made you something special."

I approached cautiously, eyeing the steaming cup she pushed toward me. "What is it?"

"Just some traditional health supplements," she explained, her eyes gleaming with an emotion I couldn't quite place. "For the baby. My mother always said these helped with morning sickness and strengthened the blood."

Ashton appeared behind her, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. "Mikayla's been researching all kinds of pregnancy remedies. Aren't you lucky to have such a caring niece?"

I forced a smile, though something about the dark liquid made my stomach turn. "That's... thoughtful."

"Drink up," Mikayla urged. "It's best when it's hot."

Over the following weeks, Mikayla's "special blends" became a daily ritual. At first, I noticed only minor changes—a slight dizziness, occasional spotting that I attributed to normal pregnancy symptoms. But as days passed, the bleeding became more frequent, and a persistent weakness settled deep in my bones.

"Are you sure these herbs are safe?" I asked one evening, after nearly collapsing during dinner.

Mikayla's expression hardened momentarily before softening into concern. "Of course they are. My mother used them with all three of her pregnancies."

Ashton dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand. "Stop being so dramatic, Alana. Mikayla knows what she's doing."

That night, I hid the tea in my nightstand, pretending to drink it while Mikayla watched. The next morning, I felt slightly better, confirming my suspicions about her "remedies."

---

"Family movie night!" Mikayla announced one Friday, barging into our bedroom where I was sketching design ideas. "Ashton's setting up the projector in the library."

"I'd love to join," I said, eager for any opportunity to reconnect with my husband.

Mikayla's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, it's just for family. You know, blood relatives only."

Before I could respond, Ashton appeared in the doorway. "Alana, Mikayla and I are watching that film you said wasn't your cup of tea anyway."

"But I changed my mind," I protested weakly.

"Don't worry about it," he said, already turning away. "We'll make popcorn. You can stay here and rest."

Through the crack in the door, I watched them settle onto the library sofa, Mikayla's hand casually resting on Ashton's arm as she leaned close to whisper something that made him laugh.

Later that week, it was a private dinner at Ashton's mother's favorite restaurant.

"Last-minute reservation," Mikayla explained when I asked why I hadn't been invited. "And you've been so tired lately."

I stood frozen in the foyer, watching through the window as Ashton pulled out Mikayla's chair, their heads bent together in intimate conversation as they walked into the dining room.

"You're imagining things," Ashton insisted when he returned home. "Mikayla is just excited to be back. She needs family support after all those years abroad."

"And I'm not family?" I asked quietly.

He sighed, adjusting his cufflinks—his tell when he was about to say something he knew was wrong. "You're being jealous. It's not attractive."

---

The boardroom fell silent as I presented my design concepts for Coleman Enterprises' new product line. Important clients from Tokyo sat across the polished table, their expressions carefully neutral.

"These are quite... creative," said Mr. Nakamura, using the word that in business circles often meant "impractical."

Before I could respond, Mikayla leaned forward, her manicured fingers tapping the presentation slides. "While Alana's ideas have artistic merit, I wonder if they're commercially viable?"

She proceeded to systematically dismantle each concept, positioning herself as the practical alternative to my "overly emotional" approach.

"Perhaps we should consider someone with more business acumen for this project," she suggested, her eyes flickering briefly to me. "Someone who understands the Coleman brand's true potential."

I looked to Ashton, waiting for him to defend me—to remind everyone that I was a trained designer with years of experience. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully at Mikayla's comments.

"Excellent points," he said. "We should explore all options."

The clients exchanged glances, and I felt my professional credibility crumbling before my eyes.

As the meeting concluded, Mikayla lingered by Ashton's side, her hand resting casually on his back as she charmed the Japanese executives with her knowledge of their culture.

I gathered my rejected designs, a cold realization settling in my chest: this wasn't just about my place in the family anymore. Mikayla was systematically destroying every part of me that made me who I was—my professional identity, my relationship with my husband, even my physical well-being.

And Ashton was letting her do it.