The Rich Wife Who Was Trapped in Asylum

The silk sheets felt foreign against my skin as consciousness slowly crept back into my mind. For a moment, I floated in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, where reality hadn't yet crashed down upon me like a tidal wave.

Then it hit me—the familiar weight of pregnancy pressing against my ribs, the soft morning light filtering through the cream-colored curtains of our bedroom, the faint scent of jasmine from the garden below. My heart began to race as fragments of memory rushed back like shattered glass piecing themselves together.

The asylum. The cold, sterile walls. Scott's gentle voice telling me the truth about the poisoning. The pills I swallowed that final night, desperate to escape the nightmare my life had become.

But I was here. In our bedroom. Pregnant.

My trembling hands flew to my stomach, feeling the slight curve that I remembered so well. The baby—my baby—was alive inside me. Not the deformed, dying infant I had delivered in my previous life, but the healthy child I had carried before John and that witch Chloe had poisoned me with their cocktail of drugs.

I was back. Somehow, impossibly, I was back at the beginning.

The bedroom door creaked open, and my blood turned to ice in my veins. John's familiar silhouette filled the doorway, a breakfast tray balanced in his hands, that practiced smile already spreading across his handsome face. The same face that had looked down at me with cold indifference as I begged him to save our dying child. The same hands that had signed the papers to commit me to that hellish place.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said, his voice dripping with the false warmth I now recognized as manipulation. "I brought you breakfast in bed. You need to keep your strength up for our little one."

Our little one. The words made my stomach churn with revulsion, but I forced my expression to remain neutral. I couldn't let him see that I knew. Not yet. Not when I finally had the chance to protect my child and destroy him the way he had destroyed me.

"That's so thoughtful of you," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

John set the tray on the nightstand and perched on the edge of the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip toward him. When his hand reached out to stroke my hair, every muscle in my body tensed. I knew what those hands were capable of. I knew the cruelty that lived behind his tender gestures.

"How are you feeling today? Any morning sickness?" His fingers traced along my cheek, and I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from flinching away. "I worry about you, Caroline. You and the baby mean everything to me."

Lies. Every word that fell from his lips was poison wrapped in honey. In my first life, I had believed him completely, had melted under his attention like snow in spring. Now I could see through his performance with crystal clarity.

"I'm fine," I said, forcing myself to lean into his touch even as my skin crawled. "Just a little tired."

"That's normal," he assured me, pressing a kiss to my forehead that felt like ice against my skin. "The doctor said you need plenty of rest. I've cleared my schedule for the morning so I can take care of you."

The doctor. In my previous life, it had been Dr. Harrison, John's chosen physician who had been complicit in the poisoning. But this time would be different. This time, I would find Scott Forrest. This time, I would be ready.

"I think I'd like to get some fresh air," I said carefully. "Maybe we could walk in the garden?"

"Of course, darling. But first, you should eat something." John lifted the silver dome from the breakfast plate, revealing perfectly arranged fruit, toast, and what looked like prenatal vitamins beside a glass of orange juice.

My blood ran cold. Even now, even at the very beginning, was he already planning to drug me? I stared at the innocent-looking pills, my mind racing. In my previous life, the poisoning had been gradual, subtle. When had it started? How early had they begun their campaign to destroy my child?

"I'm not very hungry right now," I said, pushing the tray away gently. "Maybe later."

Something flickered across John's face—irritation, perhaps, or calculation. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "You need to eat, Caroline. For the baby's sake."

The concern in his voice was perfectly modulated, but I could hear the steel underneath. This was a command, not a request. In my first life, I would have obeyed without question. Now, I met his gaze with what I hoped looked like grateful compliance.

"You're right, of course. I'm just feeling a bit queasy. Maybe if I get some fresh air first, I'll have more of an appetite."

John's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Whatever makes you feel better, sweetheart."

He stood and offered me his arm. "Come on, let's get you downstairs. Slowly, now. We can't be too careful."

The irony of his words nearly made me laugh. He was the danger I needed to be careful of, yet here he was, playing the role of my protector with Oscar-worthy dedication.

I allowed him to help me from the bed, my legs unsteady not from pregnancy but from the sheer unreality of the situation. Every step felt surreal, like walking through a nightmare where I was the only one who knew it wasn't real.

As we approached the grand staircase that swept down to the marble foyer below, John's hand settled on my arm with what appeared to be gentle support. But I could feel the possessiveness in his grip, the way his fingers pressed just a little too firmly into my skin.

"Careful now," he murmured as we began to descend. "One step at a time."

His touch was fire against my skin, but not the pleasant warmth I had once associated with his affection. Now it burned with the memory of betrayal, with the knowledge of what those hands had done to me and our child. My body began to tremble involuntarily, a visceral reaction I couldn't control.

The memories crashed over me like waves—his cold expression in the hospital room, the way he had dismissed our dying baby as if the child meant nothing, the sound of the asylum door clanging shut behind me. My breathing became shallow, panic rising in my chest like a tide.

I tried to pull away from him, my body acting on pure instinct. "I—I can manage," I gasped, but my voice came out strangled and weak.

John's grip tightened. "Caroline, what's wrong? You're shaking."

The concern in his voice only made it worse. How dare he sound worried about me when I knew what he was planning? How dare he touch me with those murderous hands and speak to me with that lying mouth?

I yanked my arm away from him with more force than I intended, my body finally rebelling against his presence. The sudden movement threw me off balance on the stairs, and for a terrifying moment, I felt myself falling through space.

The marble steps rushed up to meet me as I tumbled down, my hands instinctively wrapping around my stomach to protect the precious life within. Pain exploded through my body as I hit the cold, unforgiving floor of the foyer, but all I could think about was my baby.

Not again. Please, not again.

Through the haze of pain and fear, I heard John's voice calling my name, his footsteps thundering down the stairs toward me. But whether he was coming to help or to finish what he had started, I no longer knew.