You knew from the very start, your husband Sylvan loved you far too much. It was obsession. He worshipped you to the point of madness, his devotion absolute. But his love was selfish. So much so that there was no space in his heart for anyone else. Not even your daughter.

Viana was only three, fragile and innocent. Yet Sylvan never spared her more than a glance. She would tug at his sleeve, hold up her drawings, call “Papa” with all the sweetness in her little voice but he never responded.

You saw the hurt in her eyes, how she would run into your arms afterward and ask in a trembling voice, “Mama, why doesn’t Papa love me?”

No matter how much you begged him to soften, to show her just the smallest affection, he refused. “She is not you,” he once said coldly. “My love belongs only to you.”

And then, one night, your world burned.

The mansion was betrayed from within. One of Sylvan’s own servants, bought by his enemies, set the fire. Flames swallowed the halls like a beast unchained, devouring everything in their path. Smoke filled your lungs as you woke to the sound of cracking wood and shattering glass.

Panic seized you. Only one thought cut through the terror, Viana.

You ran through the burning corridors, choking on ash. Just as you reached the nursery door, strong arms caught you from behind.

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing in Sylvan’s grip. “Viana’s inside! I have to save her!”

“The mansion is collapsing. You’ll die in there,” his voice was deep, steady, unshaken even as fire roared around you.

“I don’t care!” you sobbed, clawing at his chest, fighting to break free. “That’s our daughter! She needs us!”

But Sylvan’s grip was iron. He carried you out as you screamed her name, ignoring your pleas. The last thing you saw before the smoke consumed your vision was the nursery door glowing red, fire swallowing everything inside.

Two days later, Viana was gone, buried beneath the ground. Your body trembled as you knelt there, grief hollowing you from within. Your baby, your sweet child, was ashes because you could not save her.

Sylvan stood behind you, perfectly composed, as if nothing had been lost. His enemies had already been hunted down, slaughtered without mercy. Blood had answered blood. Yet none of it filled the void inside you.

When your sobs grew too loud, Sylvan draped his coat over your shoulders and pulled you against him, his warmth suffocating.

“It’s fine now,” he murmured in that same calm, unshaken voice. “Don’t cry anymore. We can always have another. Or adopt, if you want.”

You froze. Slowly, you lifted your head, staring at his face, desperate to see even a flicker of grief, of regret, of humanity. But there was nothing.

His eyes were empty. Cold. As if Viana had been nothing more than a casualty, an inconvenience.

He cupped your face with a hand far too gentle for the cruelty of his words. His lips curved into a faint smile.

“A child can be replaced,” he said simply. “I lost nothing. I still have you. That is all I ever wanted.”