Sometimes, at night, I would hear him whisper stories to the child in her womb—the same stories he used to tell to my unborn baby.
They looked like the perfect, loving couple, eagerly awaiting their child's arrival.
And I...simply watched in silence. Only waiting for the right moment to strike.
I knew Weston kept something in his study—something that could expose everything he had done.
Finally, one day, my opportunity came. Weston had gone out, and the house fell silent.
I slipped quietly into his study, turned on his computer, and began searching.
When I finally found the evidence I needed, I shut the device and turned to leave.
Just as I was about to head back to my room, a faint burnt smell made me stop in my tracks.
I followed it and turned the corner—only to see Patricia standing by the brazier, tossing something into the flames.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, my brows knitting in suspicion.
Patricia turned, her face painted with that sickeningly gentle smile.
"Sister, I know how sad you've been since the miscarriage. I was afraid these baby clothes would make you even sadder, so...I'm helping you let go."