New Attempts

Charlotte

The tension in the mansion was almost palpable. After the initial failure of the fertilization, the days dragged on in a haze of expectation and fear. Richard was more serious than ever; his words were short and calculated, while Marta became a constant presence, monitoring my every move, every breath. The feeling of being constantly watched intensified with each passing moment, as if I were in an aquarium, under the watchful and critical eyes of those who didn’t care about my well-being.

The doctors had suggested a new treatment, a protocol even more invasive and rigorous. There was no attempt to explain the implications or offer me alternatives; it was as if my consent had been given long before, as if I had no choice. I was just a vessel, a body that had to obey, and the sooner I accepted that, the easier it would be.

On the day the new procedure began, I felt an overwhelming weight on me. The needles pierced my skin with the cold precision of modern medicine, and the carefully prepared drugs flowed through my veins. The machines around me emitted regular, impersonal beeps, echoing in the sterile treatment room. Everything seemed to be part of an experiment, and I was the subject. The doctors’ faces were masks of indifference, without any trace of empathy for what I was going through. They spoke in technical terms, exchanging instructions with each other, while I was reduced to a set of numbers and expected results.

As the procedure was carried out, my thoughts turned to my life before all of this—before Richard, before Marta, before I became a prisoner in a gilded mansion. I remembered the days when I had control over my own life when my choices were mine. Now, everything I did was dictated by them. I wondered if I would ever regain ownership of my destiny or if this suffocating existence was what awaited me forever.

Marta was there the entire time, watching closely, ensuring that every step was executed with precision. She was relentless, as always. Her critical eyes missed nothing, and her constant presence reminded me that failure was not an option. The pressure on me was crushing, but I knew I couldn’t show weakness. The mere thought of defying Marta made me tremble, but the idea of failing and facing her wrath terrified me even more.

Richard, on the other hand, was more distant. He would appear sporadically to check on the progress, but there was a coldness in his demeanor, as if he were observing me through a clinical lens. When he spoke to me, his words were measured, emotionless. "How is the treatment going?" he would ask, but he didn’t seem genuinely interested in the answer. The only thing that mattered to him was the success of the procedure. I was nothing more than a cog in his machine.

After the procedure, I was taken back to my room in the mansion. The silence of the place was almost deafening, and the loneliness I felt was profound. The empty corridors, decorated with artwork and expensive furniture, only intensified my sense of isolation. I knew that in the coming days, all I could do was wait—wait to see if this time the procedure would work, wait to see if I could give Richard and Marta what they so desperately wanted.

The days that followed were a mix of hope and fear. Every little symptom I felt, every change in my body, was closely monitored by Marta. She bombarded me with incessant questions, ensuring that I was following all of her orders to the letter. "Are you resting enough? Are you eating properly?" Her pressure, combined with Richard’s expectations, was almost unbearable. I felt like a caged animal, trapped in an endless cycle of control and surveillance.

Finally, the day arrived for the appointment that would confirm whether the procedure had been successful. I was taken back to the doctor’s office, where the exams were conducted with the same indifference as before. The sound of the ultrasound and the medical equipment filled the room as I tried to remain calm, my hands sweating cold. I could barely breathe as I waited for the results, feeling as if my entire life was hanging by a thread.

When the doctor returned with the results, he had a slight smile on his face. "Congratulations, madam," he said, glancing at Marta, who stood beside me with an expressionless face. "You’re pregnant. And from what we can see, you’re expecting twins."

His words seemed to echo in the room, but I could barely process them. Pregnant with twins. This meant that I had finally fulfilled the role that was imposed on me. Marta smiled for the first time since I met her, but her smile was cold, devoid of genuine joy. To her, I had simply fulfilled my obligation. Her gaze, however, still carried that hint of control and expectation. Now, more than ever, I knew my life was not my own.

Richard, who had been standing at the back of the room, remained expressionless, simply nodding slowly. "Very well," was all he said before leaving, leaving me there, alone with Marta and the doctor. His indifference was almost as painful as the fear I felt. He seemed satisfied, but there was no trace of affection or relief in his voice.

As the doctor continued to speak, explaining the next steps and what would be expected of me during the pregnancy, I could barely pay attention. The reality of being pregnant with twins hit me in waves. And along with it came the fear—the fear of what the next few months would bring, of what would happen to me while I carried the Andersons’ heirs. I knew that now I would be more watched and controlled than ever, and the prospect of that was terrifying.

When I returned to the mansion, everything seemed different, yet at the same time, nothing had changed. Marta was more vigilant than ever, ensuring that I was following all the medical recommendations to the letter. Every step I took, every bite of food I put in my mouth, was controlled. I became more and more of a prisoner, now with the additional weight of knowing I was carrying not just one, but two children.

The days that followed were filled with more humiliations. The pregnancy didn’t bring me the respect or freedom I secretly desired. On the contrary, it made Richard and Marta even more oppressive, ensuring that nothing went out of control. I was constantly reminded that my sole purpose was to produce the heirs they so desperately wanted.

Marta insisted on controlling every aspect of my life. "You need to follow this strict diet," she would say, placing specific dishes in front of me. "Any deviation could compromise the babies’ health." Each meal was a new reminder of how much my life had ceased to be mine.

Richard, though more physically distant, exerted a silent, almost invisible control over everything. I knew he was constantly updated on my condition, even when he wasn’t present. The few times he spoke to me, it was only to reiterate the importance of following the rules. "We can’t take any risks," he would say, as if I were a child needing constant reminders.

From that moment on, my struggle would not just be to survive the pressure from Richard and Marta, but also to find a way to protect myself and my children from the future that was being cruelly planned for us. I knew that with the arrival of the twins, my life would be even more controlled, but I couldn’t give up. I needed to find a way to keep my identity intact, to fight against the oppressive tide that threatened to engulf me.

As I lay down that night, feeling the weight of the lives growing inside me and the burden of the expectations that weighed on my shoulders, I promised myself that, somehow, I would find a way to survive all of this. Even if it seemed impossible, I wouldn’t let them destroy me.