My Funeral, His Destruction Stage

Adelle POV

Moving day arrived, a week later. Carter stood in the hallway outside my new apartment, his face a thunderous mask. He watched the movers carry the last boxes from my old apartment-our old apartment-down the hall and into my new one. He hadn't said a word, but his eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a simmering rage.

"You' re being childish, Adelle," he finally bit out, his voice low and tight. "Moving just one floor below me? This is immature, even for you."

I said nothing, merely watched the cleaners he' d sent, ostensibly for my 'old' apartment, sanitize every surface, as if my presence had contaminated it. I stood in the doorway of my new, smaller apartment, a two-bedroom unit just beneath his lavish penthouse. The irony was not lost on me.

Daisy, sensing his presence, flinched, burying her face into my side. She was still recovering from the flu, still fragile. She clutched my hand tightly, her small body trembling.

Just then, Fernanda' s child emerged from Carter' s apartment, clutching a brand-new, designer doll. She looked at Daisy, then at me, a smug, triumphant smirk on her face.

Before I could process the sight, the elevator doors chimed open. My entire family-Mother, Father, and Marcus-stepped out, their faces wreathed in smiles. They didn' t even glance at me. They strode directly to Carter' s door, which he opened wider to welcome them.

"Darling!" My mother exclaimed, embracing Fernanda' s child with a warmth she rarely showed Daisy. "How are you, sweetie? We brought you another surprise!"

My brother, Marcus, chuckled, handing the child a brightly wrapped gift. "Of course, she' s doing wonderfully! Look at her, so bright, so charming." They fawned over Fernanda' s child, asking about her day, showering her with compliments and gifts.

Minutes passed, an eternity of painful silence for Daisy and me. Finally, my mother turned, her gaze sweeping over the scene. Her eyes met mine, a flicker of something unreadable there.

"Adelle," Marcus said, his voice curt. "Since you' re here, perhaps you could make us all some tea. Fernanda' s child is quite fond of your Earl Grey."

I stared at him, a cold, bitter laugh bubbling in my throat. They truly saw me as nothing more than a glorified servant. An invisible presence, useful only for performing domestic tasks.

I met his gaze, my own eyes cold. "Am I your maid, Marcus?" My voice was dangerously soft. "Because if I recall correctly, Carter was just playing chef for his little princess the other day. Perhaps he' d be happy to serve you all."

Carter' s face went from grim to scarlet. Marcus gaped, utterly stunned by my audacity. My mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Adelle! How can you speak to your brother that way? I raised you to have respect!" Her voice was laced with disappointment.

"Respect?" I scoffed, a new kind of steel in my voice. "I am learning to respect myself. This is my apartment now. My space. And I will not be serving anyone in it. Not for you, not for Carter, and certainly not for his little mistress or her child."

Daisy, feeling the tension, started to cry again, her small body trembling against mine. My defiance, my sudden outburst, was terrifying her. My heart twisted in agony. I had tried to fight their battles, but all I was doing was hurting my child. This close proximity, this constant, casual cruelty, was poison. My strategic move had backfired, trapping us in a gilded cage.

Fernanda, ever the picture of grace, stepped forward, her hand gently touching my mother' s arm. "Please, Mrs. Moon, let' s not make a scene. Adelle is clearly… overwrought." Her eyes, however, held a smug, condescending pity.

My decision was instant, clear. I couldn't do this. Not to Daisy.

"We' re going inside," I announced, scooping Daisy up into my arms. My voice brooked no argument. I didn' t care what they thought, what they said. All that mattered was Daisy.

I pushed open the door to my new apartment, the click of the lock a small, firm statement. I leaned against the closed door, my strength completely drained. My legs wobbled. Daisy, still sobbing, clung to my neck.

"Mommy, I don' t like it here," she cried, her voice muffled against my hair.

I closed my eyes, a fresh wave of despair washing over me. She was right. I had made a terrible mistake. Living one floor below him wasn't an act of defiance; it was an act of self-torture. And worse, it was a torture I was inflicting on my innocent child. This wasn't a home. It was just a different kind of prison. And I had to find a true escape.