The days that followed my discovery became a silent war. I smiled for the children. I let Alexander hold me at night. I even let him make love to me — slow and careful because of the pregnancy — while pretending the horror in my heart wasn’t growing bigger with every breath. But inside, I was planning. The rose-gold collar, once a symbol of surrender and love, now felt like a tracking device. Every time it brushed my skin, I remembered my mother’s terrified voice begging for my life. Alexander knew something had shifted. He watched me constantly, his gray eyes sharp and unyielding. He canceled more meetings, stayed closer to the villa, and made sure I was never truly alone. One afternoon, while the children napped, he found me in the garden. I was sitting on a bench, staring at the ocean, one hand protectively on my belly. “You’re still thinking about her,” he said quietly, sitting beside me. “I can see it in your eyes.” I didn’t deny it. The grief had become a constant com
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