An Heir's Empty Memorial
I was recuperating at my family's lake house in the Catskill Mountains when a sudden storm knocked out all communication and power.
I slipped on the slick terrace stairs and took a nasty fall.
Lying in a pool of my own blood, I fumbled for my phone. With the last bar of signal, I called my husband, Cillian Fitzpatrick—the man who was supposed to be handling family business—and begged him for help.
"Today is the anniversary of Liliana's father's death, and she's a wreck. I'm just keeping her company. Can't you stop being so damn paranoid? You're due any day now. I'll be back, alright? Stop being so dramatic."
On the other end of the line, I heard Liliana's tearful, aggrieved voice. "Cillian, it's all my fault. Am I bothering the Principessa?"
Without another word, Cillian hung up.
My best friend and sister-in-law, Cassidy Donnelly, found me. She held me, sobbing, as she frantically called her husband, Ronan Fitzpatrick, for help.
"Are all pregnant women this fucking crazy?" Ronan snapped. "Don't you start with the same manipulative bullshit as Alessia. Cillian and I are with Liliana. We don't have time for this."
Then, he blocked her.
My injuries were too severe. The family's rescue team was trapped down the mountain by the floodwaters and couldn't possibly reach me in time.
Even though she was heavily pregnant herself, Cassidy managed to get me into a bulletproof car and navigate the washed-out mountain roads to get me to the family's private doctor.
I miraculously survived. My baby did not.
The grief and physical strain were too much; Cassidy lost her baby, too.
"I want a divorce," I whispered, my eyes swollen from crying.
"Me too. I'm done with Ronan."
Together, we submitted our request to the family.
And that was when Cillian and Ronan completely snapped.