Another tragedy.
And Magnus—wrecked by grief, shattered by guilt—looked at me like I was the only thing left in his world that could hold it together.
He begged me to stay.
He begged me to raise them.
So I did.
I gave birth to two boys. And instead of becoming the woman beside Magnus, I became the woman cleaning up the mess of his dead wife.
Two years passed.
Magnus still didn’t marry me.
When I asked him why, he looked at me like I was unreasonable.
“How do you think it’ll look?” he said. “People will say I’m celebrating Ariel’s death.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“But I’m the one you were meant to be with,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’m the one you promised.”
Magnus’ face hardened. “That doesn’t matter anymore. Focus on the boys. Marriage can come later.”
Later.
Always later.
So I poured myself into raising the twins. I tried to love them enough for two mothers. I tried to be patient, gentle, steady.
But it didn’t matter what I did.
They hated me.
They clung to Elara—the nanny—as if she was their real mother, and they treated me like the villain in their bedtime stories.
To them, I wasn’t the woman who carried them.
I was the woman who “stole” their mother’s place.