Chapter 04: Baby Lost, Baby Begot

Meanwhile…

7 Nova Lane. Bright Side District.

The richest corner of Ayodale.

In the heart of the Wei family manor… another kind of storm brewed.

“Miss Liora… Miss Liora…”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Sophie Laurent, mid-twenties, heart racing, fists tight,

stood outside the bedroom door.

No reply.

God! Not again… how many times has it been this month?

She leaned in. Whispered urgently.

“Miss Liora… please open the door…”

Nothing.

Sophie’s breath caught.

Don’t do this to me, Liora… please… if something happens to you…

Not on my watch. NO.

I won’t ever be able to look at Him…

She turned. Skirt rustling.

Almost slipped on the polished stairs.

Caught herself—just barely.

She rushed down the carpeted corridor,

each footfall muffled under money.

Down the hall.

To the study.

To her.

The woman who owned the heart of the man she loved.

She paused outside the door.

A breath.

Two.

Three.

Then—three short knocks.

Sharp.

Echoing through oak and silence.

A woman’s voice answered.

“Who is it?”

Clara.

Sophie steadied her voice.

“Madam, it’s Sophie. Miss Liora has locked herself in again. She’s not responding.”

A silence.

Sophie didn’t bother waiting for an answer.

This time was different.

Liora is in danger…

…and she’ll only listen to the woman who hates her the most…

Click.

The door opened into wealth.

The study was massive. Luxury oozed from every inch.

Dim with drawn curtains, but heavy with books.

To the left, two floors of shelves spiraled upward into a private library.

A staircase curled like a ribbon through the volumes.

To the right, a reading table so wide it could seat twenty.

Or stack a hundred books in a row.

The smell of wood,

varnish,

and old perfume lingered.

In the center—

a leather sofa set.

Pure black.

On the wall opposite the reading table hung portraits of three generations of patriarchs…

Clara lay stretched across the long one.

Reclining on her side… head on a silk pillow.

Eyes closed.

Lips parted… just slightly.

“Ma’am…” Sophie said gently.

Clara’s voice, barely audible: “Yes… what is it this time…”

Sophie’s eyes swept the room.

Landed on the table.

A small white bottle.

She stepped forward.

Read the label.

Quetiapine. 100mg.

Night sedation.

No, no… what has she done… She isn’t supposed to continue this!

“Ma’am…” her voice cracked.

“This med… the doctor told you to stop this… you’ve been off it for months—why are you on it again?!”

Clara didn’t move.

A soft hum. A breath.

“Hm…”

She was too deep in it. Slow. Detached.

“Ma’am, please… Liora needs you—she’s locked the door again—she might…”

“Would you… stop…”

Clara’s voice slurred. Each word struggled to form.

“…Liora this… Liora… that…”

Her jaw twitched.

Her eyes refused to open.

“…No one thinks about me…”

Her breath grew shallow.

Her hand curled weakly against the sofa’s edge.

“Go… call… your lover Dorian… he’ll save his little angel…”

Clara’s lips curled.

Bitterness.

Rage.

Her words cracked through sedation.

“Nn…no one… th-thinks ab-bou…t… mme…”

“…al…ways about her…”

“…Li-o-ra… his… precious doll…”

The air thickened. Sophie stood frozen.

What do I do?

Her episode is returning… she’s doubting Master Wei again…

If Patriarch Vincent hears of this—this time, she’ll be thrown out for sure.

Sophie shook her head.

Her jaw tightened.

Lips thinned with frustration.

Clara’s fingers clawed weakly at the pillow.

Her face contorted.

Hate.

Pain.

Sedation.

Her voice broke again—just barely louder than a whisper—

“Sh-she’s not mine…”

“Ta…ke hh..er a…way…. gi…ve m..y ba…by bb..ack…”

Ah, what a pitiful woman…

My heart rents seeing how mother and daughter are out to destroy themselves…

They don't lack anything… but the one thing—happiness—that could the family bond together.

Then silence. A sigh of heavy sorrow tore through her heart, melting away in the air of the study that hung still and stale.

Then, she frowned, remembering something Clara had just said.

What’s she talking about? Not her…? What other baby?

Could it be that Patriarch Vincent again put pressure on her for a boy…?

But what comes out of her belly isn’t something she decides…

Why would she take that on herself… and then blame it all on the poor child, Liora…?

She is indeed her daughter…

Just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the far corner.

Sophie clenched her fists, frowning…

Eyes glaring at Clara.

Then why did you even bear her if you were going to throw her away?

That girl… that poor, trembling girl upstairs… she loves you so much…

And you hate her for it?

Sophie swallowed hard.

Turned.

Moved toward the door.

Her heart hammered with panic and frustration and something darker—something aching.

She pulled out her phone.

Her thumb trembled as she scrolled.

Found the name.

Dear (heart emoji)

Her thumb hovered.

Her thoughts spilled.

Master Dorian… you were always kind to me… but never looked at me.

Not the way you looked at Clara…

The call rang.

She walked faster.

Down the corridor.

Toward the stairs.

Toward Liora.

No time for love stories, Sophie. Not when Liora’s in danger.

The phone rang again.

No answer yet.

She passed the family portrait near the staircase.

Clara. Dorian.

And a much younger Liora.

Frozen smiles. Painted perfection.

Lies.

Meanwhile Upstairs.

First floor. Liora’s door still locked.

Sophie knocked again.

Harder this time.

“Liora. Sweetheart. It’s Sophie. Please open the door.”

No sound.

Nothing.

Her hand trembled on the knob.

She could hear it now. The faintest shuffle.

Or maybe her mind was imagining it.

Please be an imagination…

Her other hand still held the phone. Still ringing.

Still no answer.

She tried one last time.

“I’m calling your father now… he’ll come… he’ll break this door if you don’t open it…”

Silence.

Tears welled in Sophie’s eyes.

Inside the room, Liora Wei sat on the cold marble floor, her back pressed against the bed, a bed steet wrapped tightly around her knees.

No light.
Just the soft hum of the city bleeding through the cracked window—distant, detached.

Somewhere… there must be happiness…

Silent tears had already carved dry streams across her pale, porcelain cheeks.

She heard the lady’s voice outside.

That wasn’t my mother’s voice…

New tears welled up, flooding her big, sorrowful hazel eyes.

Her body hiccupped with the effort of holding back an overwhelming sadness.

Not far from her, on a bookshelf, a box cutter glinted—catching the faint moonlight seeping through a narrow gap in the window sashes.

On the wall opposite, the window’s metal bars cast long shadows, now shaped like a prison cell’s opening.

The first time Liora tried to climb out that window, Dorian had bolted metal gratings over it—for safety.

The box cutter… glinting… looked mysteriously hypnotic, like the melody from the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Every inch of Liora's body screamed to get up and follow the glint.

To her, it looked like a portal to eternal happiness… but her body wouldn’t listen.

The prescribed medications left her drowsy at school—numb, unfocused.

But at home, it was worse. The drowsiness turned into a kind of sleepwalking.

This unhappy prison cell…

In her mind, a bright white unicorn descended from the clouds.

Upon its back—a radiant angel with a golden halo, eyes locked on hers.

Please, save me… I can't bear the silence. The sadness. The endless emptiness. Take me away from this sorrow…

She stared at her wrists.

At the faded scars.

At the fresh ones.

It hurts so much… I don't wanna do it anymore… can't you come… why won't you come?

But the urge sat like a beast in her chest.

No screams.

Just gut-wrenching, voiceless sobs.

Mom, why won’t you love me? Why do your sad eyes always look away?

What do you search for? Why won’t you see me…

standing right beside you?

…

Mom, help me… I can't stop myself anymore… I need you…

Outside, Sophie whispered into the phone as it clicked to voicemail.

“Master… it’s me… please come home.”

“Clara’s sedated. And Liora… she’s not answering. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

She wiped her eyes.

“I’m scared. I think something’s really wrong this time…”

She lowered the phone.

Clutched the doorknob like a lifeline.

This house is too quiet.

Too rich.

Too empty.

Like Clara’s soul.

Back in the study, Clara lay still.

Drugged and floating.

But inside… somewhere…

A memory tugged.

A baby’s cry.

A storm.

A decision.

A door she had once walked away from.

A stroller.

A finger that held hers for the first and last time.

And then—

Nothing.

No grief.

No guilt.

Only the soft hum of luxury.

Meanwhile, in the outskirts of Ayodale…

Back in the bathhouse…

Karlyle slept, tired and exhausted from hard work, sweating in his shorts and tank top, in the damp and hot little room of his.

Unbeknownst to him—or his master—tears flowed in silent pain.

He was not having any dream.

He was crying…

from a sorrow that his heart felt for someone…`