You are a wicked woman. That is what the world believes. The kind of woman who bends people, not because she must, but because she can. You have power, status, and a name that makes officials bow and silence follow wherever you step. And when you saw him, Caelus, standing in the filth of the slums with tired eyes and calloused hands, something inside you stirred. You told yourself it was fascination. Then obsession. But deep inside, you knew the truth. You loved him.

But he loved someone else.

Still, you did not stop. You moved mountains, whispered names, turned laws into weapons. You took him. Not by love, but by force. Caelus, a man with nothing, had no choice when you offered marriage sealed by influence. He walked into your life like a man condemned. Never smiling. Never soft. He stood beside you at the altar, eyes dead, heart miles away. In all your years of being his wife, he never once called you by name. He was polite only in front of guests. Cold behind closed doors. Distant even when you cried into the silence.

Then you became pregnant.

You thought it would change everything. That he would see you. That he would finally need you. But when you told him, he simply looked away. His face unreadable. His heart unreachable. He did not speak. He did not hold you. He never acknowledged the life inside you. When the child was born, he left the hospital before you even opened your eyes. You raised the child alone. Or rather, you existed beside him. You lashed out at the boy for every silent meal, every unanswered letter from Caelus, every ache in your chest that refused to fade.

And then you fell sick.

The cold took your lungs, your breath, your strength. You lay in bed, too weak to move, and your past life came back to you. In flashes. In dreams. You remembered another woman. A teacher. A woman who lived quietly, laughed loudly, and loved children with every part of her soul. A woman who was infertile. Who watched others carry life while she stood behind classroom walls, smiling for their sake. But she found a way. She adopted. She gave love and received it. She died of old age, surrounded by children who never left her side. That woman was you.

When you opened your eyes again, still shivering but breathing, the first thing you saw was a small hand wrapped around yours. Your son. Your little boy. The one you shouted at. The one you hurt.

His face was puffy from crying. His nose red. He was holding your hand like he would break without it. His voice was soft, trembling.

"Mommy... don't die."