I couldn’t help but wonder—why the guest room?
Ignoring his attempts to stop me, I walked straight to the master bedroom door. Without hesitation, I pushed it open.
This had once been our room. Milford’s and mine.
But now, it was unrecognizable. Not a single trace of me was left. Everything had been rearranged to suit Malissa’s tastes. Even our wedding photos had been replaced with pictures of him and her.
The man who once swore he would look at our wedding photo every night before bed and never take it down—even when he turned eighty—had clearly changed.
I stared at the picture of Milford and Malissa, their smiles mocking me from the frame. The tears fell quietly, without sound.
So, this was why he never came to rescue me. Was he afraid I’d get in the way of him and Malissa?
The old butler sighed, clearly wanting to offer some kind of comfort, but in the end, he couldn’t find the right words.
I stood there, numb, my eyes drifting to the baby crib in the corner of the room. I asked, almost in a whisper, “Where’s my daughter? Where is she?”
The old butler hesitated, clearly reluctant to speak. Fortunately, my persistent questions finally wore him down. Thus, the butler told me my daughter was in the shed out back.
That place was cold, damp and filthy. What could my daughter possibly be doing there?
When I found her in that shed, I felt a surge of hot blood rush to my head, followed by a chilling cold that crept up from my feet.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. My five-year-old daughter was tightly clutching my memorial tablet, locked in a massive dog cage with a half-grown wolfdog that towered over her.
Once chubby and healthy, my little girl was now skeletal. Her small body seemed even more fragile than before.
Her clothes were ripped and torn, exposing bruises and wounds on her arms, legs and even her face. Some of the wounds were so deep you could see the bone.
The wolfdog, once a vicious beast, was sleeping soundly beside her, its muzzle caked in blood.
My daughter, who was once terrified of even the smallest pain, didn’t shed a single tear. Instead, she looked at the sleeping dog, fearful but desperate. Slowly, she crawled over to the food bowl and began eating the spoiled scraps in it, gobbling them down with no regard for the filth.
I couldn’t help but think of Malissa, holding her chubby newborn son just moments ago. Hatred surged through my chest.
"Milford—how dare you?!"