Days passed in a haze of confusion and quiet dread. The room felt like a gilded cage, with walls that pressed in each time I held the twins close, wondering what exactly Nick’s game was. He hadn’t come back since locking me in that day, leaving me isolated, no answers, just the soft cries and tiny hands of my babies grounding me in moments that felt like they were slipping away.
Then, one morning, a soft knock sounded on the door, and before I could respond, Enola stepped inside, her expression calm, almost too calm. Her gaze swept over the room, lingering for a moment on the twins before settling on me. There was something calculating in her eyes that made me sit straighter, my instincts on edge.
“Good morning, Mirabella,” she said, her tone pleasant but with an edge that felt sharp ben
