I spoke to the guards once. Asked for help. The way they stared straight ahead, unmoving, uncaring—I might as well have been speaking to statues.
Reagan didn’t need whips or fists. He knew how to destroy someone by erasing them.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse—Dulcie appeared.
Her heels clicked smugly against the concrete. She stood on the other side of the bars, perfectly dressed... in my clothes. My silk robe. My diamond necklace. My ruby ring on her thumb which was my mother's gift.
“You always dressed too modest, darling,” she purred, her lips curved in a venomous smile. “But don’t worry. Your wardrobe finally found someone worthy.”
I clenched my fists until my nails bit skin.
“And that big bed upstairs?” she added with a giggle, “Let’s just say, it’s not so cold anymore.”
She laughed. Laughed until it echoed off the walls.
Her heels stopped inches from the cell bars, and her smile widened—sweet as cyanide.
“You know,” Dulcie said, twirling the gold locket around her neck—my mother’s locket, “I used to wonder what it felt like to be you. The Titanis Princess. The golden girl. Daddy’s genius. Now?” She leaned in, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Now I just feel sorry for you.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But my throat burned.
She held up a photo. Faded. Torn at the edges. My mother and I, arms wrapped around each other. One of the few pictures I kept hidden in my bedside drawer.
She smiled, then slowly tore it in half. Right between our faces.
“She hated you, you know,” she hissed, letting the pieces flutter like ash. “Always talked about how you reminded her of the mistakes she couldn’t undo. But she loved me. Said I had potential.”
Lie. I knew it was a lie. I knew my mother too well before she died.
Her voice turned saccharine again. “Poor little Danica. You always had the grades, the looks, the press, the perfect life. But guess what?” She tapped her flat stomach. “I can give Reagan what you can’t.”
My jaw clenched.
“A child,” she said sweetly. “A real heir. One he wants. Not like your broken body. I mean... after all those miscarriages, those chemical pregnancies—what’s even left in there?” She laughed, cruel and loud. “Your uterus is basically a haunted house, isn’t it?”
I lurched forward, but the bars stopped me.