Chapter 34
Elara
Lily was almost three when they stopped reducing my medication entirely.
"There's no point," Tristan said. "You can't produce work anymore. We need to focus on keeping you stable."
"Stable" meant semi-comatose.
I'd wake up and Lily would already be at the nurse's apartment. I'd sleep through dinner. Through baths. Through bedtime stories.
"Mama?" She'd stand in my doorway sometimes, her little voice uncertain. "Are you sick?"
"Yes, baby. Mama's sick."
"When will you be better?"
"Soon. I promise."
But I never got better.
Three weeks after Lily's third birthday, Tristan came with the lawyers and the CPS worker.
I was lying on the couch in yesterday's clothes. There were dishes in the sink. I'd forgotten to shower. The apartment smelled stale.
Lily wasn't even there—she was staying full-time at the nurse's apartment now, only visiting me for an hour each day under supervision.
"Elara, we need to talk about Lily's welfare."
I couldn't even sit up properly. The medication made everything swim.
"We're filing for emergency custody. The court hearing is in two weeks."
"No—"
"Look at yourself. You can barely function. You haven't painted in over a year, so the reduced medication protocol is no longer medically justified. You need full-time care yourself, let alone being able to care for a child."
The CPS worker was taking photos. The dirty dishes. The unmade bed. Me, slurring my words, unable to stand without swaying.
"This is what you did to me," I whispered. "You did this."
"You did this to yourself," Tristan said calmly. "You refused to accept help. You refused to acknowledge your mental illness. And now Lily is suffering because of it."
The court hearing was a blur.
I couldn't focus. Couldn't articulate my thoughts. Cried on the stand.
Julian testified. "She's unable to provide adequate care."
Tristan testified. "We've provided three years of medical support and housing. She's only deteriorated."
The nurse testified. "The child barely knows her mother anymore. She cries when forced to visit."
Sloane testified in her suit, her voice soft with regret. "I've tried to help. But Elara has made paranoid accusations against me. I worry about what Lily might be exposed to."
Judge Morrison read the verdict.
"Parental rights terminated. Child to be placed in foster care pending adoption proceedings."
Just like that.
Lily was gone.
I saw Tristan afterward in the courthouse hallway.
"Why?" I could barely stand. "Why did you destroy me?"
He looked down the hall where Sloane was waiting, radiant in the afternoon light.
"She mentioned once that it bothered her. Seeing Julian's daughter with another woman. It made her feel insecure about their future together. She cried about it." His voice went soft, reverent. "She didn't ask me to do anything. She would never ask. But I knew what needed to happen. What would make her happy. What would give her and Julian the clean start they deserved."
"You took three years of my life. You destroyed my mind. You took my daughter. All because Sloane cried?"
"I did what was necessary for the family." But his eyes betrayed him—he'd done it for her. For love. For the desperate hope that maybe, someday, she'd see him as more than Julian's brother.
And she never even knew what he'd done in her name.
---
The memory released me and I was back—back in the hallway with Tristan's hands around my throat and his face twisted with rage and behind his glasses I could see it now, could see the truth I'd been too drugged and desperate to understand before.
He'd done it all for Sloane.
Every document. Every lie. Every needle full of poison they'd pumped into my veins.
Not because Julian asked him to. Not even because the family demanded it.
Because he loved her. Because he thought if he cleared away all the obstacles, all the complications, all the ugly messy proof that Julian had touched someone else—maybe, just maybe, she'd finally look at him with something other than polite gratitude.
And she'd never even known.
Or had she?
Had she whispered in his ear, sweet and worried, "I don't know what to do about Elara and that baby"? Had she cried on his shoulder and let him promise to fix everything? Had she thanked him after, with that perfect smile, and never asked what "fixing" meant?
I'd never know.
But it didn't matter.
Because Tristan had made the choice. Had signed the papers. Had locked me in that white hell and thrown away my daughter like she was garbage to be disposed of.
"You." I forced the word out through his crushing grip. "You killed... Lily..."
"You're fucking insane!" His hands tightened. "See? You're crazy! Just like I said!"
"TRISTAN!"
The voice was old but commanding, and Tristan's hands released instantly.
I collapsed, gasping, my throat on fire.
"Dios mío!" Mamá's voice, high and panicked. "My baby! My baby girl!"
She crashed to her knees beside me, her hands fluttering over the marks on my neck—vivid red fingerprints already darkening to bruises.
Mr. Vane Senior stood at the corridor's end, his cane planted firmly on the marble floor, his expression thunderous.
"To the study. Now." His voice left no room for argument.
Tristan's face was still flushed, his glasses askew. "Grandfather, she—she was spreading lies about me—saying terrible things—"
"Now."
Tristan shot me one last venomous look and stormed off, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Mr. Vane Senior approached slowly, his cane tapping a steady rhythm. He looked down at me—not at my injuries, not at Mamá crying over me—just at my face, measuring, calculating.
When he spoke, his voice was different. Colder.
"Elara Vance."
Not "Elara." Not "child." My full name. Like I was already a stranger.
I pushed Mamá's hands away gently and forced myself to stand, my legs shaking but holding. I wouldn't be on my knees for this.
"You've been nothing but trouble since you came to this house." His tone was conversational, almost bored. "My blood pressure has been through the roof. My doctor says I need to avoid stress. And you, Miss Vance, are giving me headaches."
"Mr. Vane, please—" Mamá clutched at his sleeve. "Please, she'll apologize! She'll be good! She's still in school! Please!"
"Mr. Vane Senior." My voice came out hoarse but steady. "Victoria hired people to assault me. She posted lies online. She—"
"I know."
The words hit like a slap.
"What?"
"I know what Victoria did. The posts. The men in the alley. The Parker boy's transfer." His eyes didn't change—calm, cold, assessing. "But she's my flesh and blood. My granddaughter. The Vane bloodline. And you, Elara Vance, are just an orphan we took in out of guilt."
The truth of it settled over me like a burial shroud.
He'd always known. Every cruelty. Every lie. Every attack.
And he'd chosen them anyway.
Because blood was all that mattered. Blood and power and the Vane name.
"Pack your things." Mr. Vane Senior turned toward the stairs. "I want you out by tonight. That's final."
"No!" Mamá grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. "No, please! Where will we go? We'll be homeless! She's just a child!"
"I'll write her a check. Enough for a year's rent and basic expenses." He didn't look back. "Consider it my final act of charity."
I took a breath, tasting blood and defeat and something that might have been freedom.
"Understood." My voice was clear now, steady. "Thank you for everything you've done for me, Mr. Vane. I'll be gone before dinner."