Chapter 4: The Cruelty of Ritual

My father arranged my marriage to Ethan just to humiliate the Whitmores.

But Ethan used to be kind. He restored my mother’s grave, taught me to read, and even cared for Andy.

Andy once said, “Big sister, I like Ethan.”

He never imagined Ethan would be the one to kill him—and then have his body destroyed.

Ethan hesitated, holding Savannah tighter.

The preacher finally said, “Actually, there is another way…”

“What?”

I clung to hope.

“If you use the red agate bracelet, blessed at church, and have a blood relative kneel at the altar for five days and pray, it’ll have the same effect.”

Savannah slowly woke up: “She’s pregnant—how can she kneel for five days?”

By now, I saw through Savannah’s game.

The bracelet was a protection charm Ethan had gotten for me from St. Agnes Church, after praying and making vows. I remembered the day he brought it home.

But I’d already cost Andy his life—how could I let him suffer more?

I took off the bracelet and moved to give it to Savannah.

She covered her face, hiding a triumphant look:

“Carrying the Whitmore heir, and you still care so much about your old family? Even giving me the bracelet Ethan gave you.”

Ethan gripped my wrist, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched:

“You care about Andy that much? More than our child?”

“Yes.”

I swallowed the metallic taste in my mouth, holding back years of bitterness.

“If she’s so kind, then she doesn’t get to eat, and she has to recite prayers a thousand times a day for Savannah.”

Ethan sneered, broke the bracelet, and left with Savannah without looking back. The sound of the beads scattering across the hardwood floor echoed in the silent church.

I gathered them, my hands shaking, and carefully restrung the bracelet, as if piecing together the last fragments of my old life.

I gathered the scattered beads, restrung them, and slipped the bracelet back on, gently brushing my belly.

Baby, I’m sorry. If you blame me, I’ll understand.

Just hold on—six more days.

When it’s over, I’ll take you away.

I knelt at church, praying for Savannah. With each prayer, her maid struck my palms with a wooden ruler. The sting was sharp, but I barely flinched.

After just one day, my hands were red and swollen.

After another strike, the maid looked down at me: “Sorry, ma’am. Only way to drive out the evil spirit.”

“Besides, Mr. Whitmore said it’s okay.”

My hands, like my heart, went numb.

By the fifth day, before I could finish one prayer, I fainted.

In a haze, I saw Ethan stumbling toward me, face full of worry.

Must have been a dream.

How could Ethan ever worry about me?

In the dream, I didn’t know how many years passed, lost in fog, reliving the past. Everything blurred together—pain, hope, regret.

I saw Ethan riding toward me, calling me ‘Lila,’ promising when he returned victorious, he’d marry me.

But I waited and waited.

Waited for my father to destroy the Whitmores, waited for myself to beg on my knees for hours in the Oval Office, smashing my head to save Ethan from exile.

Then came years locked away, until the rebels stormed the city.

Ethan, on horseback, lifted my chin with his saber, eyebrows raised in mockery: “If you want to save your family, serve me. Let me command you.”

I took off my dress and went to his bed that night.

Ethan showed no mercy for my first time, venting all his anger at my family on me.

Four years of marriage, and though I had the title of Mrs. Whitmore, I was really just his captive, there to be humiliated and tormented.

The memories flashed by like a slideshow.

When I woke again, two days had passed—the time to leave was here.

After four years in the Whitmore estate, all I had left was the child in my belly.

I always wanted to say goodbye to Ethan.

When I opened the door, I was blinded by red. Curious, I walked toward Ethan’s study, my heart pounding in my chest.

Passing through the garden, I saw Savannah’s maid leading servants, carrying jewelry and gifts through the hallway. They looked like a parade of wealth and promise.

She stopped and greeted me coldly: