Chapter 203

Chapter 203
Megan‘s POV

I've known since I could remember that I carried something dark inside me—something my mother called "criminal genes."

Caitlin would stroke my hair so gently after I made mistakes, then deliver her cruel verdict with that soft voice: "Megan, your biological mother killed many people. You have the same genes she had. Look, you've made another mistake."

In public, Caitlin was the perfect mother. She'd smile warmly, speak kindly to me, shower me with just enough affection to make me believe—God help me—that I was actually loved. That feeling of unconditional love? It was intoxicating. I craved it like a drug.

But the moment we walked through our front door, she'd transform. Cold. distant. Cruel.

Some nights, she'd wake me up at 2 AM and make me stand in the hallway until dawn. Sometimes she'd ignore me for days, not speaking a single word, like I didn't exist. She'd force-feed me foods that made me gag. She'd tear me down with words that cut deeper than any knife.

You're worthless. You're broken. You're just like her.

I thought she was helping me. I thought all of this was normal—that she was somehow cleansing the evil from my blood. So I tried harder. I smiled brighter. I begged for scraps of her approval like a starving dog.

It wasn't until years later that I learned the truth: Caitlin hated me because I was living proof of my father's affair. She wasn't trying to save me from my "criminal genes." She was trying to create a monster. I was her perfect little lab rat.

Caitlin wasn't just cruel—she was completely fucking insane. But she hid it well. Everyone else saw the brilliant psychologist, the devoted mother, the pillar of the community.

None of them saw what she really was.

Emily was another victim.

She was the daughter of Caitlin's friend, Ophelia Grey. When Ophelia suffered a complete mental breakdown, the Grey family trusted Caitlin to care for both mother and daughter.

Caitlin saw an opportunity. She manipulated Ophelia's fragile mental state, convincing her to push Emily away, to hurt her own daughter. Then Caitlin swooped in as the "protector," isolating Emily from her mother completely.

I was six when I first saw Emily. She was already six too—this tiny, skeletal thing huddled in the corner of that sterile room.

She couldn't speak. She'd developed some kind of cognitive disorder, convinced she wasn't human at all.

"Megan, she needs a friend," Caitlin said with that clinical detachment she used when discussing her "research subjects." She wanted to study what happened to children deprived of maternal love—but she didn't want to create another complete mental breakdown. So she decided to intervene.

"I think she needs her mother more," I said, testing the waters.

I'd seen Ophelia before—this broken woman who'd clutch me tight and call me "Emily" through her tears. Even in her madness, even through all that pain, she still loved her daughter.

Caitlin's face darkened. That pleasant mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something terrifying underneath.

"I could be her friend," I backtracked quickly.

I tried to talk to Emily, but she didn't respond at all—she was like a puppet.

Caitlin looked at me with disgust. "Useless," she muttered. "I'll have to find her a new friend."

On the drive home, I couldn't stop thinking about Emily. "Why does Emily have to be locked up? Is it because she inherited her mother's mental illness genes?"

"Her mother doesn't have mental illness genes," Caitlin said matter-of-factly.

"But she's crazy."

"I drove her crazy."

The casual way she said it made my blood freeze.

When I stared at her in shock, she actually explained—like she was discussing the weather. "If she stayed clearheaded, she'd remember losing her husband. She's too fragile for that kind of pain. She would have killed herself."

"She has a daughter!" I shot back. "She'd live for Emily! "

"She's too weak. She couldn't handle that much suffering."

I learned later that Caitlin's real motivation wasn't protecting Ophelia—it was controlling her vast inheritance. The suicide prevention was just her way of sleeping at night.

"She's my best friend. She can't die, even if she's suffering. She has to stay alive."

"Then why are you imprisoning her daughter?"

"That's not imprisonment or torture. It's research." Her voice was so calm, so fucking reasonable. "I want to understand what a child deprived of maternal love becomes."

What do they become?

Suddenly, I realized I'd never met my grandparents. Caitlin never mentioned them—like they'd never existed at all.

Maybe children like that become... well, like Caitlin. Incapable of real love.

I started to understand why my father never came home anymore.

Caitlin loved Dad—or thought she did. Even when he cheated, even when he stopped pretending to care, she wouldn't let him go. She said anything that belonged to her, even if it rotted, would never escape her control.

But I don't think Caitlin actually loved him. She just liked owning him.

Our relationship was twisted in ways I'm still trying to understand. She hated me, abused me, but she also showed me her truest self—all that darkness she kept hidden from everyone else.

Sometimes, I almost believed she loved me.

But love mixed with torture is so much worse than pure hatred.

Caitlin found Emily a new "friend" soon enough—Simon Wallace. He was this pale, gaunt boy with severe OCD, constantly trying to scrub himself clean.