Morning.
Eleanor sat at the dining table, calm as a photograph. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, dawn hung in the sky—pale, rinsed-out, offering no warmth.
Ms. Jones carried a breakfast tray toward the primary suite, as she did every day.
Eric never came out. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. He stayed a ghost behind that door. And every time the tray returned, the food was almost untouched, as if it had been placed there for show.
Then the silence broke.
Footsteps—fast, uneven—scraped across the floor inside the suite. Ms. Jones recoiled, then hurried down the hall and hammered on Linda's door.
"Ma'am—please. Now. You need to come—"
The door flew open. Linda stood in her robe, hair mussed, eyes already sharpened into rage.
She took one look at Ms. Jones's drained face and snapped, "Why are you standing there? Move."
"Please—you have to see."
Linda shoved past her and stormed toward the primary suite, muttering curses. "Get it together. If she's made a mess, you clean it up. That's what you're here for."
Eleanor set her coffee down with a soft click and followed.
She hadn't even reached the threshold when Linda's voice cut through the door, jagged and loud. "What the hell is this? First thing in the morning and you're doing this again?"
From inside came a thin, repetitive murmur. Not an answer. Not even a response. Just sound—someone talking to keep from disappearing.
Linda's patience snapped. "How long are you going to keep this up? You think you can scare me? Go ahead—die. You'd be doing me a favor."
Eleanor didn't wait. She shoved the door open.
The door struck the stopper hard enough to jolt the bedside lamp.
The air hit her first: metallic, sharp, the heavy sweetness of blood. The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room in a womb-dark gloom. In the weak pool of lamplight, her eyes went straight to the bed.
The headboard—custom, ornate, carved from rare hardwood—had been mutilated. The wood was splintered into jagged teeth, foam exposed like a wound.
Eric was cuffed to the frame.
The metal had chewed his wrists raw. Dried blood tracked down his forearms in dark, narrow rivers.
In his right hand he clutched a dinner fork, the tines driven deep into his left arm—anchored in flesh. Fresh blood leaked in sluggish lines, blooming across the sheets in wet, dark maps.
His legs weren't restrained, but they lay unnaturally straight, as if he'd forgotten how to move them.
He looked skeletal. Hair oily and plastered to his hollow cheeks. His eyes fixed on the ceiling—unblinking, glassed-over, not quite seeing.
His lips moved in a steady, rhythmic twitch. Open. Close. Open.
"I'm not Eric... I'm Eleanor... I'm Eric... I'm the real Eric..."
No tremor. No panic. Just the same sentence cycling, again and again, like a corrupted recording that couldn't stop.
It was worse—so much worse—than Eleanor had allowed herself to imagine.
Linda saw it and flinched, a brief flash of alarm cracking her face before she shoved it down and replaced it with anger. She jabbed a trembling finger toward the bed.
"You see? You see this? She's completely gone."
Eleanor stepped closer. She looked down at the man trapped in her body—hollowed out, cuffed, bleeding—and took his hand.
It was ice-cold.
"Okay," she said quietly, steady as a metronome. "I hear you. You're Eric."
He didn't register her. The chanting continued, flat and vacant.
Eleanor turned her head. Her gaze landed on Ms. Jones. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"What happened?"
The calm in her tone made Ms. Jones shrink. "Mr. Davis... Mrs. Eleanor Davis—she—she snapped. Last night we... we weren't careful. We didn't realize she'd hidden the fork."
The words spilled out, frantic. "And it's not the first time. A few days ago she shattered the bathroom mirror and tried to use the glass. She's tried to get to the windows twice. We're terrified she's going to... that she's going to end it."
Linda cut in, louder, as if volume could manufacture reality. "You hear that? She won't eat, she won't drink. She's self-harming. She's a danger to herself. I had them restrain her. If I hadn't, she'd be dead by now. I'm saving her life, Eric."
"Saving her." Eleanor let out a short laugh that didn't touch her eyes.
She held out her hand. "The key. Now."
Ms. Jones fumbled in her pocket. Her fingers trembled so hard she nearly dropped it before pressing it into Eleanor's palm.
Eleanor leaned over and unlocked the cuffs.
Click.
The metal fell onto the sheets with a dull, final thud. Eric's wrist sagged, limp, as if the hand belonged to someone else.
Nausea rolled through Eleanor—hot and immediate—at the sheer cruelty of it. She swallowed it down. If this body ended up permanently damaged, she would be the one carrying the scars when the world snapped back into place.
Eric had been the one who let Linda's greed off the leash. Now Eleanor needed that greed. She needed Eric contained. She wasn't going to free him—but she wasn't going to let Eleanor Averill die in her own bed, either.
She straightened and turned to Linda, her tone softening by a fraction—just enough to sound like a partner in a cold bargain.
"Mom. We both know what's at stake. I'm not questioning your methods, and I appreciate everything you've done to protect the Davis legacy."
Her eyes stayed cold. "But there's a line. When you cross it, you create a liability. People know the Averill name. If something happens to her in this house, it's not just a tragedy—it's a public nightmare. One we can't contain."
The room went still.
Ms. Jones looked like she wanted to vanish into the wallpaper.
Linda drew herself up, brittle and defensive. "You think this is easy? She's on a hunger strike. She's self-harming. If we don't restrain her, she'll do it. I'm the only one keeping her alive."
"I understand the fear," Eleanor said, even. "Now look at the optics. If she dies in this house under these conditions, what do you think the story becomes?"
Linda's jaw tightened. No answer.
"We stabilize her first." Eleanor pivoted to Ms. Jones, her voice snapping into crisp executive mode. "Call the family physician. Now. Full exam. Clean and dress those wounds properly. If she needs medication, she gets it. Every dose administered on schedule—no exceptions."
Ms. Jones nodded, frantic, and bolted.
"Medication?" Linda barked. "Absolutely not. She's breastfeeding. Those drugs will get into the milk. They'll harm the babies."
"Breastfeeding." Eleanor's laugh came out quiet and lethal. "Don't play that card with me. He hasn't even seen those children. Who are you trying to fool with the mother's-milk performance?"
Linda's face darkened; a vein pulsed at her temple. "Eric, since when do you talk back to me? Everything I've done has been for you—for those girls—"
"Mom." Eleanor cut her off. One word. A blade laid flat on the table. "Stop. Before you make a decision we both regret."
On the bed, Eric's head turned slowly, like he was moving through deep water.
For the first time, his eyes found Eleanor's. Something flickered in the haze—raw, jagged need. He clung to her gaze like a drowning man.
"Eleanor..." His voice scraped out, dry and cracked. "It hurts. I'm dying... I can't do this anymore." His breath hitched into a sob. "Please. Switch us back. Please."
He jerked against the frame. Fresh blood welled at his wrists.
"I'm right here," Eleanor said, pulse spiking despite herself. She leaned closer, watching that last flare of survival fight through the emptiness.
She touched his shoulder—light, careful. "Don't panic. Rest. I'm not going to let you die."
Her mind flashed to the NICU: Eric trembling from the incision, from the engorgement, awkward and stubborn as he tried to hold a newborn to his chest. A vulnerability she hadn't expected. A lever she could use.
"Do you want to see the babies?" she asked.
Something lit in his eyes—a quick flare of longing—then his gaze flicked toward Linda and slammed shut. His jaw locked.
"No," he forced out, brittle. "I don't want to."
Eleanor caught the glance. The hard swallow. The way fear held him by the throat.
The corner of her mouth curved. "That's fine. I'm here. You'll see them when you're ready."
She moved to the doorway and projected her voice into the hall.
"Bring the twins in. Let Eleanor see her children."
Linda surged forward, panic sharp as broken glass. "No. Look at her. You'll scare them—this is too much—"
"Mom." Eleanor turned back, gaze level, unshakable. "They're newborns. They don't know what 'scary' is." A beat. "And you should have more faith in Eleanor. She would never hurt her own babies."
Her voice never rose. The finality did the work.
She looked to Ms. Jones, who had returned halfway down the hall. "Go."
Linda drew herself up, furious. "You don't listen to a damn thing I say anymore. Fine—have it your way. But when this blows up in your face, don't come crawling back to me to clean up the mess."
She spun out, silk robe snapping behind her.
A minute later, Ms. Jones returned with the nannies—Claire and Nicole—each carrying a small swaddled bundle.
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I'm currently traveling, so updates will be irregular for a bit. Thanks for sticking with me!