Pregnant With His Child, Branded as Trash

Olivia was kneeling on the floor, crying, her face full of fear—as if she'd truly suffered some inhuman abuse at my hands.

I froze. Her sudden collapse took me entirely off guard.

My arm was blistering red, bubbles rising beneath the skin, the pain sharp enough to numb my fingertips.

I opened my mouth, just about to say I hadn't even touched her—but the next second, Kurt rushed forward and scooped Olivia into his arms, holding her as if she were something fragile and precious.

His voice was so gentle it was almost trembling, like he was afraid the air itself would scare her.

"It's okay, Olivia... don't be afraid. No one will hurt you. I'm here. I'm here."

"I'll protect you."

The way he held her was exactly the way he used to hold me when I was a child—when my parents beat me, when I cried until hiccups shook my chest, he would pat my back and whisper the very same words.

Only now, the one in his arms wasn't me. It was another woman.

My heart twisted painfully. I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the ache.

But knowing all too well what it felt like to be wrongly accused, I didn't want things to escalate further.

I forced myself to steady my voice.

"I... didn't spill that porridge. She did it her—"

"Enough." Kurt's cold voice cut me off like a blade.

He lifted his head, looking at me as if I were some troublesome, spoiled child.

"Daniella, you're really getting too unruly. You need to calm down. I've spoiled you far too much."

He suddenly stood and grabbed my wrist hard—hard enough to make me wince.

Fear surged up from somewhere deep in my memory, cold and instinctive.

"Kurt, I really didn't do anything... Why won't you believe me? I didn't hurt her—"

Kurt said nothing. He just dragged me up the stairs.

My blood turned to ice. My mind snapped back to a nightmare I thought I'd buried long ago.

"Let go of me... Kurt, let go... please—" My voice cracked into a sob.

He pushed me into the attic and slammed the door, followed by the click of a lock.

His voice echoed from the other side of the stairs. "Stay inside and reflect on your behavior. When you realize your mistake, I'll let you out."

"Kurt!" I screamed, hoarse. "You know I'm afraid of the dark! You know—"

My voice broke into pieces. But his footsteps faded further and further away.

The attic swallowed me whole.

Nothing but darkness. Thick, suffocating, absolute.

I collapsed to the floor as my breath caught in my throat.

He knew. He knew when I was little, my father locked me inside a sealed suitcase and dragged it around for an entire day and night. He knew I couldn't handle small spaces. He knew darkness made me panic, made my heart spasm, made me claw at my own skin for air.

And he still did it for Olivia.

He didn't even want to hear me explain.

In that suffocating void, I clutched my chest as if my ribs were closing in on me.

If this were any day before today... If Kurt had done this to me then—I would've cried and convinced myself I must've done something wrong. That I'd made my brother angry again.

I would've repeated every word, every gesture, trying to figure out where I'd gone wrong, hoping that if I behaved, if I tried harder, he would smile at me again.

That if I was obedient enough, he would never abandon me.

But now I finally knew what hid behind his years of "guidance," "discipline," and "correction."

And none of it—not a single bit—had ever been my fault.

The night felt endless.

I pounded on the door until my knuckles burned, and screamed until my throat tore.

The darkness seeped into my bones, dragging me back into the old terror, drowning me all over again.

It wasn't until the next morning that the lock finally clicked open.

Light stabbed into my eyes.

I looked up, but I couldn't even raise my arm to shield myself—my burned skin was swollen, blistered, raw and numb from the pain.

Kurt stood there, brows furrowed as if he were looking at a disobedient child who'd caused him trouble.

He stepped forward quickly and lifted me from the floor.

"Why are you sleeping on the ground? Silly girl."

I had no strength left to respond.

Kurt crouched, opened the ointment he brought, and began applying it carefully to my wounds.

"Does it hurt?" His voice was gentle, as if nothing had happened the night before.

"It was my fault yesterday," he murmured with a sigh. "I lost my temper. I just... I'm afraid you'll turn out like our parents—violent."

His tone was helpless, tender. As if he truly worried about me.

But only I knew that "violent" accusation came from rumors he'd never bothered to verify.

His gentleness was just another snare—another method of control.

He applied the ointment with exaggerated care.

But he didn't see the despair in my eyes.

"Don't be angry anymore," he said, rubbing my fingertips like soothing a sulking child. "Take a couple days to rest. I'll take you to Disneyland you've always wanted to go to, okay?"

The closer his gentleness pressed against me, the clearer I saw the truth hiding behind it—a man ready to push me straight into the abyss.

I drew a quiet breath.

"Brother," I whispered.

He paused and looked up. "Mm?"

I stared at him and asked slowly, "Do you... love me?"

Kurt didn't hesitate to answer. "Of course, I love you."

My vision blurred. He didn't remember.

He didn't remember telling me once, "Daniella, I won't say 'I love you' lightly. I want to prove it with my actions, not sweet words. I cherish you. I love you, and I want to protect you."

All of that... meant nothing now.

I no longer knew whether he ever loved me at all. But maybe that answer didn't matter anymore.

Because in six days—I would be gone.