The postpartum period.

A slow torture of sleep deprivation and physical recovery.


Fortunately, Marcus Mitchell was now experiencing it instead of me.

I insisted on breastfeeding rather than formula.

He never slept more than two hours at a stretch, jolted awake by hungry cries.


Engorgement left him feverish and shaking with pain.

After just one month,


the shadows beneath his eyes had become permanent fixtures.

His gaze had turned vacant and hollow.

All traces of the charismatic movie star had vanished.

He moved like a shell, all vitality siphoned away.

Throughout this period, I spared no expense on nutritionists and recovery specialists.

The body he inhabited grew stronger, curves filling out beautifully.

My former body glowed with health, even as the eyes remained dead windows.

Before we knew it,

the baby's one-month milestone arrived.

I hosted an extravagant celebration, inviting industry elites and press.

Under crystal chandeliers, champagne flowed freely among the gathered VIPs.

Standing before the assembled crowd, I made two announcements.

First, my newborn son would be the sole heir to the Mitchell fortune and legacy.

Second, I surveyed the rapt audience, voice carrying effortlessly:

"I am retiring from entertainment permanently. Today, I depart for a monastery where I will devote myself to spiritual practice for the remainder of my days."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the stunned crowd.

Ignoring their reactions, I continued:

"All my assets—stocks, properties, accounts—transfer immediately to my wife, Olivia Blackwood. By nightfall, I will be at a remote monastery in Montana, where I will take a vow of silence for the remainder of my days."


Marcus sat in the audience cradling our son,

first stunned, then horrified as my words registered.

As he opened his mouth to protest,

the nanny behind him leaned forward as if to adjust the baby's blanket.

Her voluminous sleeve concealed her movements from the crowd.

A metallic glint appeared briefly between her fingers.

The needle slid expertly into his neck, delivering its sedative payload.

Marcus's body went rigid.

His eyes widened in shock before rolling back as he slumped forward.

The nanny cried out dramatically:

"Madam's fainted! Someone get a doctor! Quickly!"

All eyes immediately turned to the commotion.

Through the ensuing chaos, I raised my arms skyward:

"The glitter of fame is but dust! Today I leave this hollow existence behind! May you all find peace as I have!"

With that, I strode purposefully from the hall, never glancing back.

On this day,

everything changed irrevocably for the Mitchell dynasty.

And Marcus Mitchell's true nightmare was only beginning.