The call came at dawn.
Vanessa's voice cracked through the line.
"She's gone, Eliana. Eliora's gone."
I sat up in bed. My heart thundered, louder than her voice.
"When?"
"Last night. She took a bag and disappeared. No note. No goodbye."
Adrian took the phone from me. Calm but firm.
"Is security on alert?"
"Airports. Terminals. Highways. She's vanished."
"We'll take it from here."
He hung up and looked at me. I didn't need to ask. I already knew.
She was planning something.
Security around the house doubled.
More cameras.
Motion lights.
A guard posted outside my bedroom.
Another is stationed downstairs.
Adrian didn't say much.
But he didn't need to.
He held my hand tighter. Walked closer. Slept with one hand over my stomach.
Four days passed.
No signs. No messages.
Until the package arrived.
Brown wrapping paper. No return address. My name in sharp black ink.
Adrian watched me open it.
Inside, a baby doll.
The head was twisted sideways. The dress stained red.
Paint, not blood. But meant to terrify.
Carved into the chest was one word.
Thief.
Adrian took it and walked straight to the fireplace.
He dropped it into the flames. Didn't flinch.
We didn't talk about it.
The next morning, a voicemail.
No caller ID.
I pressed play.
Static. Then Eliora's voice, cool and flat.
"You always wanted what was mine. Now you've taken it. But do you really think you've won?"
I deleted it.
He didn't hear it.
But he knew.
We started staying indoors more.
No media appearances.
No dinners out.
The baby kicked harder each day. I counted them all.
Adrian kissed my stomach every night.
He told stories. Whispered promises.
"I'll protect you both," he'd say.
I believed him.
I had to.
I started writing letters to our baby.
In case something happened.
In case she came back.
One evening, Adrian found one of the letters.
He read it silently.
Then folded it and placed it in the drawer.
"I'm not going to let her hurt you," he said.
"I know," I whispered.
Three days later, just after midnight, we heard a thud.
Then another.
Adrian grabbed a flashlight. I followed him to the front porch.
A bundle lay there.
Wrapped in a soft baby blanket, soaked in red.
Paint again. But it looked too real.
Inside the blanket was a note:
"The real mother always comes back."
He didn't speak.
He burned the note too.
That night, I didn't sleep.
The next morning, Adrian finally opened up.
"My father wasn't just trying to save your family's business."
I looked at him.
"There was a clause in the contract," he continued. "If no child is born within two years, the agreement is null. The company goes to my uncle."
"So this was never about love," I said softly.
"It was never about you," he replied, pained.
"She knew," I said.
"She's always known. That's why she let you take her place. She thought she'd find a way back before it was too late."
But now it was too late.
She had lost her place.
She was unraveling.
Two days before the custody hearing, I got another message.
This time, a photo.
Eliora standing near the nursery window.
Smiling.
Wearing a hooded coat.
Behind her, the outline of our house.
She had been here.
Close.
Watching.
I showed it to Adrian.
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he ordered a full lockdown.
The next day, we went to court.
The judge was stern. The lawyer briefed him quickly.
"Is the plaintiff present?" the judge asked.
"No, Your Honor," our lawyer answered. "She has refused to appear."
"Has she submitted any legal documents?"
"No, Your Honor."
The judge looked at us.
"In the absence of a legitimate challenge and with evidence of psychological harm, I grant full maternal custody of the unborn child to Eliana Montclair."
I didn't cry.
Adrian squeezed my hand.
His father called that evening.
"Congratulations," he said. "We protected the future."
That was all that mattered to him.
Adrian hung up without answering.
We ate dinner in silence.
Then he told me something that chilled my blood.
"My uncle tried to claim the company two years ago. My father made the marriage contract airtight. But he always warned me: if an heir didn't come, we'd lose everything."
"So this baby isn't just a baby," I said slowly. "It's leverage."
"It's a legacy," he corrected. "To them."
"But to me," I said, placing a hand on my belly, "it's love."
That night, we heard footsteps.
Not in the house.
Above it.
On the roof.
The guards swarmed.
She was gone by the time they got there.
Left behind on the rooftop was a stuffed giraffe.
The same one from our nursery shelf.
But its eyes had been removed.
Adrian didn't sleep that night.
Neither did I.
The next day, the head of security reported that Eliora had hacked into his father's private files.
She'd accessed contracts.
Birth records.
Legal loopholes.
Adrian frowned. "She's looking for a way to undo everything."
Vanessa called.
"She's trying to prove fraud," she said. "That the wedding was a deception."
"She can't," I replied. "I married you legally."
"But she's digging," Vanessa said. "And she's not alone anymore."
Adrian paled.
"Does she have help?"
"Yes. Someone from inside your uncle's circle."
I felt a chill.
This was getting bigger than just jealousy.
It was a war.
That night, Adrian got a message.
No number.
No signature.
Just four words:
"Check the nursery camera."
He rushed to the monitor.
Played back the last two hours.
A figure appeared on the screen.
Slender. Familiar walk. Same long black hair.
She walked up to the crib.
Placed a new note.
Then walked out the way she came.
Adrian and I raced to the room.
There it was.
Pinned to the baby blanket.
"I want him."
And suddenly I knew this wasn't about revenge anymore.
It was about possession.
And she wouldn't stop until she got what she wanted.