When My Husband’s Guru Made Me Lose Our Baby

The days blurred together in a haze of hunger and isolation. I'd lost track of time since the miscarriage, since Charley had been banned from the penthouse. My world had shrunk to these white walls, Renata's herbs, and Duncan's cold disapproval.

A soft knock at my door startled me from another fitful nap.

"Mrs. Gray?" Mrs. Mills' voice was barely audible. "I've brought fresh linens."

I opened the door to find our head housekeeper standing there, arms laden with folded sheets. Her eyes darted nervously down the hallway.

"Thank you," I whispered, taking the stack from her.

As our hands met, I felt something hard and rectangular slip between the sheets. My heart skipped a beat.

"I'll be back to collect the used ones in an hour," she murmured, her voice deliberately loud enough for any listening devices.

When the door closed, I rushed to the bathroom, locking it behind me. With trembling fingers, I unfolded the top sheet to reveal a hollowed-out book with a small burner phone inside.

Tears sprang to my eyes. A lifeline.

I turned on the shower, letting the water run to mask any sound. Then, with shaking hands, I dialed Charley's number.

"Serenity?" Her voice was shocked. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

"I'm not," I whispered, pressing the phone closer to my ear. "I need help. They're starving me, Charley. And something's wrong with Duncan—he's not himself."

"Listen to me," Charley's voice hardened with determination. "I've been gathering evidence about Renata. She's not who she claims to be. But we need more—we need your brother."

"Peter?" I closed my eyes, remembering my last conversation with my brother. He'd warned me about Duncan's changing personality, but I hadn't listened.

"Senator Harrison has the power to help you," Charley explained. "But we need proof of what they're doing to you. Can you document anything?"

"I'll try," I promised. "But you have to be careful. Duncan has security watching everything."

"Just stay alive," she said fiercely. "I'm coming for you."

* * *

I didn't hide the phone well enough.

Three days later, Renata burst into my room without knocking, her face twisted with rage. In her hand was my sketchbook—the one I'd been using to draw my grief when words failed me.

"Explain this," she demanded, flinging it onto the bed.

I stared at the open page—a dark, chaotic drawing of a woman trapped in a glass cage, blood-red hands reaching for her.

"They're disturbing," Duncan said from the doorway, his voice clinical. "Renata showed me others. Violent images. Self-harm fantasies."

"They're just drawings," I protested weakly.

"They're evidence of your deteriorating mental state," Renata corrected, her voice dripping with false concern. "We need to address this properly."

What followed was not therapy.

They seated me in a white room I'd never seen before, beneath strobe lights that pulsed in disorienting patterns. Renata sat across from me, a digital recorder between us.

"Who are you?" she asked suddenly, the question catching me off guard as the lights flashed.

"I'm Serenity," I answered, squinting against the brightness.

"No," she corrected sharply. "You're Mrs. Gray. The wife of Duncan Gray. But who are you really?"

The question seemed to split into multiple voices as the lights continued their hypnotic pattern.

"I'm—I'm an artist," I stammered.

"An artist who draws violence," she supplied. "An artist who harms herself."

"No!" I protested, but the word came out weak and confused.

Hours later, they played back selected clips of our "session" to Duncan. My voice, isolated from context, sounded erratic and unhinged.

"She needs intensive treatment," Renata diagnosed with a sigh. "Away from distractions."

* * *

While I was being psychologically dismantled, Renata was executing the next phase of her plan.

In her private office, away from the penthouse's security cameras, she inserted a specialized drive into Duncan's laptop. Her fingers moved with practiced precision as she navigated through encrypted folders.

"Accessing Gray Industries secure server," she murmured to herself, watching progress bars fill across her screen.

The walls of her office were lined with certificates and awards—not for spiritual guidance, but for corporate espionage. A small shrine to her true calling.

When the transfer completed, she removed the drive and locked it in a hidden safe behind a framed photo of herself with Duncan—the perfect cover story.

She picked up a secure satellite phone and dialed a number with international routing.

"It's Victoria," she said when the call connected. "I have the drone blueprints. Gray's new prototype is even more advanced than we anticipated."

"Excellent work," a male voice replied. "The Chinese military will pay handsomely for this intelligence."

"Payment as agreed," Renata confirmed coolly. "And remember—no trace back to me."

As she ended the call, her lips curved into a satisfied smile. The "Ascend Foundation" was just another layer of her elaborate con—a way to access powerful men like Duncan Gray and exploit their weaknesses.

Serenity was merely collateral damage in a much larger game.