Chapter 3He Killed Our Daughters For Her

Ethan froze, his expression hardening. Then, he let out a short, contemptuous laugh.

“Reagan, you’ll say anything, won’t you? Is this because you found out about Victoria’s pregnancy today? Are you really that desperate?”

Without another word, he turned and stalked towards the door. He paused in the doorway, his back still to me.

“You’re the one who wanted me to come home,” he said coldly. “Don’t go crying to Grandfather that I’m neglecting you. It only makes me hate you more.”

The door clicked shut, and the room was silent again. I stumbled into the bathroom and scrubbed at my teeth, trying to erase the ghost of his touch from my lips.

There was a time when Ethan and I were in love.

On my eighteenth birthday, he stood before me, the tips of his ears bright red with shyness.

“Reagan,” he’d stammered. “I want to take care of you. I don’t want to just be… like your brother anymore.”

The young man’s cheeks were flushed, but his eyes held a conviction that was intoxicating. In that moment, my heart melted. For the next few years, he treated me like I was made of glass. And I loved him with everything I had.

Then, when I was twenty-two, his grandfather summoned us to his study.

“You’re both of an age to marry,” Arthur had said, smiling warmly. “Reagan, my dear, your grandfather saved my life. I couldn’t bear the thought of you marrying into another family. What do you think of my boy, Ethan?”

From that day on, everything changed. Ethan’s affection, the tender intimacy we shared, it all vanished overnight.

I never understood what happened. He would never give me a reason.

A year into our marriage, I became pregnant with the twins. After that, he was barely home, spending his nights out, shamelessly parading Victoria around town.

I tried to fight, to argue. But he would just look at me with that same coldness, as if I were a hysterical stranger.

“You got what you wanted,” he’d say. “You’re Mrs. Lockwood. You’ve given the family an heir. What more could you possibly be crying about?”

Then, the final twist of the knife: “Stop acting like a victim in front of me. It’s disgusting.”

After that, I stopped asking for a reason. I accepted the reality. Ethan didn’t love me, and he didn’t love our children. I focused all my energy on the girls.

They were sweet, smart, and well-behaved. I thought that was enough. I thought watching them grow would be my happiness.

But now, even that has been taken from me.

The next morning, the cremation was quick and sterile. I stood outside the funeral home, holding two small, light boxes.

They were so tiny when they were born, sleeping peacefully in my arms. How is it that after five years, they’ve become even smaller, even lighter?

A burning sting filled my eyes, but I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to let another tear fall.

Sophie stood beside me, her expression etched with worry. “If you need to cry, Reagan, just let it out. Don’t hold it in.”

I didn’t answer her. My gaze was fixed on Mr. Lockwood as he prepared to get into his car for the drive to the cemetery.

“Grandfather,” I said, my voice clear and firm. “The girls won’t be buried in the Lockwood plot. And I’m changing their last names. They aren’t Lockwoods. They are my daughters. Reagan Scott’s daughters.”

Arthur Lockwood stared at me, his eyes ancient and weary. Then, a sudden fury overtook him.

“That worthless son of mine!” he roared. “On a day like today, where the hell is he?”

Sophie flinched beside me and mumbled, “His phone is off. I can’t reach him.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear.

“You carried them for nine months and brought them into this world through hell. It will be as you say.”

I immediately sank to my knees before him and pressed my forehead to the cool pavement three times. My debt of gratitude to this man was immeasurable. But that debt had nothing to do with my children. I would not allow them to suffer any further indignity, even in death.

After his car pulled away, Sophie gently helped me to my feet. “Reagan…” she began, her voice cracking.

I gave her a small, sad smile, then hailed a cab, clutching the two boxes to my chest. I was going back to the house. I had to pack up their things. That house was never a home, and I wouldn’t leave a trace of them in that cold, empty place.

But when I pushed open the front door, the sound that greeted me was the sordid noise of a man and a woman, tangled together.

“Oh, stop,” a woman giggled. “I’m pregnant. The doctor said we need to be careful.”