Chapter 5 - Grace’s Six Months of Hell
Grace later told me what happened while I was racing back to the hospital.
She had been alone when the contraction hit.
Not truly alone—the nurses were there—but after months inside the Rossi estate, surrounded by people who had either harmed her or been too frightened to help, being separated from me made every closed door feel like another cage.
She gripped the bedrail.
“Dominic.”
The nurse leaned closer.
“He’s coming back.”
“He promised.”
“He’ll be here.”
Grace shut her eyes.
Promises had become dangerous things.
Six months earlier, she had watched my helicopter disappear into the sky.
For the first few weeks, life had remained normal.
Mother visited her for tea.
The staff prepared whatever she wanted.
Grace decorated the nursery.
Then one afternoon, she heard voices inside my father’s old study.
Mother and Calder.
Grace hadn’t meant to listen.
Then she heard my name.
“Dominic cannot find those accounts.”
Calder replied, “He won’t unless someone tells him where to look.”
“And the girl?”
“Grace?”
“She asks questions.”
Grace stepped backward.
The floor creaked.
The voices stopped.
Mother opened the door.
“Darling.”
She smiled.
“What are you doing here?”
Grace tried to smile back.
“Looking for a book.”
Mother studied her.
Grace knew immediately that she had not been believed.
Three days later, Dr. Moretti arrived.
Mother claimed he was an obstetric specialist.
He gave Grace vitamins.
The next morning, she woke dizzy.
Her phone was gone.
Mother said she had dropped it.
Then Grace’s laptop disappeared.
Then staff stopped entering her rooms.
Finally, one night, Mother brought tea.
Grace remembered taking two sips.
She woke in the west wing.
At first, there was no cage.
Only the locked bedroom.
Mother sat beside the bed.
“You’ve been under terrible stress.”
“Where am I?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“I want Dominic.”
“He knows.”
Grace stared at her.
“What?”
Mother handed her printed messages.
They appeared to come from me.
Keep her isolated.
I can’t deal with this right now.
Do whatever you need to do.
Grace read them again and again.
She cried for hours.
But doubt remained.
I could be cold with enemies.
I could be ruthless in negotiations.
But with Grace?
Never.
Then Mother played the recording.
My voice.
Or something very close to it.
“I don’t want to speak to her. Keep her there until the child is born.”
Grace nearly broke.
Nearly.
But one phrase saved her.
The child.
I had never called our son that.
Not once.
He was “little man.”
“champ.”
“the soccer player currently attacking your mother.”
Anything but the child.
Grace realized the messages were false.
So she began pretending to believe them.
That was how she survived.
She ate.
She rested when possible.
She obeyed.
And she watched.
She noticed Mother always kept the brass key inside the antique cabinet.
She noticed Moretti left his medical bag near the bed.
One evening, while he argued with Mother outside, Grace took a memory card from a small recorder in his bag.
Later, she discovered the recorder still worked without it.
She began hiding it whenever Mother visited.
That was how she captured their conversations.
Weeks passed.
Then Mother installed the cage.
Grace asked why.
“You tried to escape.”
“I walked into the hallway.”
“You endangered my grandson.”
“My son.”
Mother smiled.
“For now.”
That was when Grace understood.
This was not simply about silencing her.
Mother intended to take our baby.
Grace began recording everything.
She hid the memory card under the mattress.
When she could, she scratched messages into the wall.
Mother eventually noticed.
She punished Grace by removing everything sharp from the room.
Grace used the edge of a broken metal bed fitting instead.
Her fingers bled.
She kept writing.
PLEASE DON’T BELIEVE YOUR MOTHER.
Because she believed I would come home.
Even when Mother told her I wouldn’t.
Even when the video calls stopped.
Even when fabricated messages claimed I wanted a divorce.
Grace waited.
Then, two days before my return, Mother took her wedding ring.
Grace fought her.
That was where the scratches came from.
Mother pulled the ring free.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving Dominic something he’ll understand.”
“He’ll know.”
Mother smiled.
“He has spent his whole life believing me.”
Grace looked at her.
“He loves me.”
The smile disappeared.
“That is precisely the problem.”
Mother left the room.
Grace cried that night.
Not because she believed Mother.
Because she feared I would arrive too late.
Back at the hospital, another contraction seized her.
The fetal monitor changed.
The doctor entered.
“We may need to move quickly.”
“Is my baby okay?”
“We’re watching him closely.”
“Where’s my husband?”
“On his way.”
Grace stared at the door.
“Please.”
Meanwhile, I drove through the storm.
Marco sat beside me.
“Slow down.”
“I promised her.”
“You’re no good to her dead.”
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
We reached the hospital.
I ran through the lobby.
An elevator would take too long.
I took the stairs.
Second floor.
Third.
Fourth.
Maternity.
A nurse saw me.
“Mr. Rossi?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
“Is she okay?”
“She needs you calm.”
That was never a good sentence.
I entered the delivery room.
Grace turned her head.
The instant she saw me, something changed in her face.
Relief.
Pure relief.
“You made it.”
I took her hand.
“I promised.”
She laughed weakly.
“You’re cutting it close.”
The doctor looked at the monitor.
“Grace, we need to talk.”
The baby’s heart rate was dropping during contractions.
If it continued, they would need an emergency delivery.
Grace squeezed my hand.
“Do whatever keeps him safe.”
The next hour was the longest of my life.
I had spent years walking into dangerous rooms without showing fear.
Nothing compared with watching the woman I loved fight through pain while knowing I could do nothing except hold her hand.
Then the doctor looked at us.
“We need to move.”
Everything happened quickly.
Nurses.
Lights.
Consent forms.
Grace was frightened.
I kissed her forehead.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes found mine.
“You’re not alone.”
“What if—”
“No.”
I touched her cheek.
“You and our little man are coming home.”
She cried.
“So you still call him that?”
“Always.”
They wheeled her away.
I stood outside the operating room.
Minutes became hours in my head.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Marco.
Police had searched Calder’s vehicle.
They had found passports.
Cash.
Documents.
And one more thing.
A handwritten order signed by Victoria Rossi.
It concerned Grace.
The final line read:
After delivery, transfer the infant separately.
I stared at those words.
There was another instruction below it.
One that explained exactly what Mother had intended to do with Grace after our son was born.
May you like
And when I read it, I understood that the cage had never been meant to hold my wife forever.
It had been meant to hide her until she could be erased.
