Countdown to Departure

The soft drag of bristles against canvas was the only sound breaking the heavy, suffocating quiet of the meticulously decorated room. Elena Prescott held her paintbrush steady, methodically adding the final, deliberate stroke to an oil painting. The image staring back at her was a picture-perfect family of three—a mother, a father, and a smiling young boy standing in a sunlit garden. The idyllic scene stood in stark, mocking contrast to the reality she lived in.

Her phone lay on the wooden easel next to her palettes, the speakerphone projecting her mother's weary, desperate voice into the dim space.

"Elena, please tell me you've thought about what we discussed," Vivian Sinclair pleaded, the exhaustion in her tone unmistakable. "Your grandfather is failing. You are the only child your father and I have. After all these years, are you really still refusing to come home and take over the company?"

Elena stared at the smiling painted faces. For ten years, she had endured a bitter estrangement from her own family. She had sacrificed her prestigious background, her inheritance, and her pride, all to serve the Prescott family. She had given up everything to marry the man she loved, believing they were building a life together.

Now, looking at the dried paint, she felt nothing but a hollow echo in her chest.

Just as Vivian let out a trembling breath, clearly expecting another rejection, Elena finally broke the decade of silence.

"Okay."

The line went dead quiet. Vivian’s breath hitched, caught off guard. "Y-you’re saying yes?"

"Yes," Elena said. Her voice carried no warmth, just a flat, weary resignation. "I'll do it. But I need some time to wrap things up here. I'll be back in fifteen days."

She didn't wait for her mother's tearful relief. She ended the call and let the phone slip into her pocket. Setting the paintbrush down, she felt a cold sensation wash over her skin. She walked out of the bedroom and moved toward the carved wooden railing of the second-floor landing, gazing down at the sprawling, brightly lit living room below.

There, sitting on the custom leather sofa, was her husband. Declan Prescott possessed striking, sharp features that gave him an air of commanding authority. In Oakhaven, he was known as a man holding tremendous power—serious, distant, and famously untouchable. His shirts were always tailored, the collars buttoned high, projecting elegance and strict control. Yet, right now, the cold armor was nowhere to be seen. He was leaning forward, speaking with an uncharacteristic, tender gentleness to another woman.

Nestled securely in that woman’s arms was Elena's five-year-old son, Colton. The boy blinked his wide, delicate eyes, looking up at the woman with pure adoration.

"Cami," Colton said, his bright giggles floating up the sweeping staircase. "I want fish casserole for my birthday dinner. Will you make it for me?"

Camilla Hayes tapped the boy's nose with a fond, practiced smile. "Of course I will, sweetie."

Colton’s eyes lit up. He threw his arms around her neck. "Cami, you're the best. Not like my mom. She never lets me eat anything good. She’s always taking away my sweets." He pouted, burying his face in Camilla’s shoulder.

"Then you’ve got to eat a little extra today, Cole," Camilla coaxed, her voice dripping with affection.

Colton nodded, his warm chuckle echoing through the high ceilings. "Cami, I wish you were my real mom."

Upstairs, standing in the shadows of the landing, Elena felt a dull, physical ache bloom in her chest. She monitored Colton’s diet because his stomach was sensitive. She restricted his sweets because she didn't want him getting sick in the middle of the night. It was a mother's basic, thankless care.

Watching the scene below, Elena's mind drifted to the past. Camilla had been her intern. She vividly recalled the day the young girl had stood in her office, crying about her poor background, desperate and struggling. Camilla had claimed that if she lost the job, she would be forced to return to her rural hometown and marry a stranger. Pity had moved Elena. She had brought the girl into the company, mentored her, and treated her with kindness.

She never imagined she was inviting a parasite into her life. Camilla had watched her, mimicked her mannerisms, and slowly, deliberately woven herself into the fabric of the Prescott household. By the time Elena saw through the innocent facade, Camilla was already indispensable to Declan and Colton.

Elena pulled her gaze away. That was her husband and her son down there, but they looked like the real family. She was just the ghost haunting the second floor.

She turned and retreated into her bedroom. Barely a minute passed before soft, deliberate footsteps approached her open door. Camilla glided in, her makeup picture-perfect, her smile sickeningly sweet.

"El, come downstairs with me," Camilla said, her tone light and breezy. "Let's celebrate Cole's birthday together. We’re just waiting on you."

Elena looked at the younger woman, noting the subtle triumph dancing in Camilla’s eyes. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to tell this homewrecker to get out of her sight. But a heavy sigh escaped her lips. Colton was just a five-year-old boy. He shouldn't have his birthday ruined by adult betrayals. Purely out of love for her son, Elena swallowed her disgust.

"Fine," Elena said curtly. She brushed past Camilla’s shoulder, ignoring the brief, malicious flicker that hardened the younger woman's fake smile.

Taking a seat at the long dining table proved to be an agonizing ordeal. The crystal chandelier cast a warm glow over the spread of food, but the atmosphere suffocated Elena. She sat in silence, watching Camilla expertly serve Declan and Colton. The younger woman anticipated Declan’s preference for black pepper, knew exactly which cut of fish Colton liked, and acted the part of the true lady of the house. They chatted and laughed, a seamless trio, leaving Elena to stare blankly at her empty plate.

She picked up her silver fork, intending to force down a bite of salad. But the moment the scent of the rich fish casserole reached her nose, her stomach lurched. A sudden, brutal wave of nausea hit her. The room spun.

Dropping the fork with a sharp clatter, Elena abandoned her seat. She pressed a hand over her mouth and rushed down the hall to the guest bathroom. She slammed the door shut, gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, and gagged. Acid burned the back of her throat. Her knuckles turned white as she leaned over the basin, her chest heaving as she waited for the dizziness to pass.

She splashed cold water on her pale face, staring at her own dull eyes in the mirror. She patted her skin dry and slowly walked back out to the dining room, hoping against reason for a shred of concern from the man she had spent a decade loving.

Instead, Declan sat back in his chair, his eyes devoid of any warmth. He sneered coldly, his jaw set in irritation. "What's the excuse this time? A cold? Or is the food at home simply not good enough for you anymore?"

Elena stopped in her tracks. She looked at his sharp, accusing face. She remained silent. If she told him the truth—that she was pregnant with his second child—he wouldn't believe her. He would just accuse her of making up another lie for attention.

Seizing the tense moment, Camilla approached with syrupy, feigned worry. "Mr. Prescott, don't say that about El. Maybe she really isn't feeling well. She has lost so much weight lately."

Camilla picked up a porcelain cup, filling it with steaming liquid from a teapot. She walked over to Elena, holding it out. "El, are you okay? Here, have a cup of hot chamomile tea. It will settle your stomach."

The scent of the floral tea mixed with the heavy aroma of the food, making Elena's stomach roll again. Irritated, exhausted, and battling intense nausea, Elena raised her arm and lightly pushed Camilla's hand away to decline the drink.

She barely applied any force. It was a mere brush of her fingers.

But Camilla’s eyes widened. She deliberately let herself fall backward, her arms flailing. The porcelain cup tipped, spilling the scalding hot tea directly onto her own hand before shattering on the hardwood floor.

"Ow! Cami!" Camilla let out a loud, theatrical cry, clutching her reddened skin.

"Cami!" Declan and Colton yelled in unison.

Chairs scraped violently against the floor. Both father and son instantly rushed to her side in blind panic. Colton dropped to his knees, his delicate face crumpling into tears. He reached out with trembling little hands, deep distress written all over his features. "Cami, does it hurt? Does it hurt a lot?"

"It's okay, Cole," Camilla sniffled, biting her lip to force a brave, wavering smile. "I was just being clumsy. It doesn't hurt. Don't cry for me."

Declan knelt beside them, carefully inspecting Camilla’s scalded hand. The tenderness in his touch vanished the second he slowly turned his head to glare at Elena. His dark eyes blazed with pure ice.

"What are you trying to pull now?" he demanded sharply, his voice dropping into a lethal register.

Elena stood frozen, staring at the shattered porcelain at her feet. She looked at her son, crying for the woman who was dismantling their family, standing in front of Camilla like a fierce little protector. She looked at her husband, shielding the homewrecker tightly against his broad chest.

"I didn't push her," Elena said, her voice strained. "I barely touched her."

"Enough!" Declan snapped. He pulled Camilla closer, looking up at Elena with deep, cutting disappointment. "El, you've changed. You were never the kind of person to do something like this out of jealousy. What happened to you?"

A bitter, silent laugh echoed in Elena's mind. *What happened to me?* she thought. Ten years ago, her skin hadn't been dull from staying up endless nights soothing a crying infant. She hadn't carried the physical toll of a rough pregnancy, the stretch marks, the fading youth. She hadn't sacrificed her soaring career to stay home, only to be tossed aside and replaced by a manipulative intern the second she lost her shine.

The heavy exhaustion settled deep into her bones, crushing whatever fight she had left. Heartbroken by the devastating sight of the two people she loved most treating her like the enemy, she swallowed the explanation she had been about to give. The truth of her current pregnancy died on her tongue. There was no point.

Elena turned on her heel and walked silently away from the dining room. She climbed the stairs, her steps slow and measured.

Pausing briefly at her bedroom door, she cast one final, lingering glance down at the living area. The family doctor had already been summoned. Declan and Colton were hovering around Camilla on the sofa, perfectly tangled together as if they couldn't bear to be apart. They didn't even look up to see if she was still there.

A bitter, resigned smile touched Elena's lips. She stepped into her room and closed the door, sealing herself off from the life she had built.

Standing in the quiet shadows, she gently rested her palm against her flat belly. With her other hand, she pulled out her phone. She opened the calendar application, her thumb hovering over the screen. Methodically, she set a fifteen-day countdown.

She stared at the digital numbers locking into place. From this moment on, she vowed, she wouldn't disturb them ever again.