My Son's Death, His Cruel Betrayal

Krystal POV:

The words hung in the air, thick and foul. He accused me of killing our son. Again. Just like his mother, just like his relatives. The pain in my elbow screamed, but my heart remained utterly silent.

"Maybe," I murmured, my voice raspy from the fall. I didn't care to argue. I didn't care to defend myself. It was too late for all that. "Maybe you just needed someone to blame."

He stared at me, his grip tightening on my gown. "You think this is a joke?"

"No," I answered, my voice still flat. "I think you' re in pain, and you need a target. If that target is me, then so be it. Do what you have to do."

I knew this dance. I' d danced it countless times before. Hailey would do something, make a mistake, or simply find a way to manipulate Jonathan. And when the consequences came, or when he needed to deflect, I was always the convenient scapegoat. He wouldn't truly believe I' d poison someone. He just needed to lash out. He needed a villain. And I was always ready to play the part. He was never truly blind to Hailey' s manipulations; he just needed a cover, someone to absorb the fallout.

The casual way I accepted his accusation seemed to choke him. He let go of my gown, pushing me back until I hit the wall. Hard.

"Why are you like this, Krystal?" he demanded, his voice dropping, tinged with a raw, desperate confusion. "Why do you hate me so much? I'm not your enemy."

I closed my eyes. "I have nothing to say, Jonathan."

My silence was a wall between us. A thick, impenetrable wall I had built brick by brick. His heart, I could almost feel it, began to tremble. He was losing control. He was losing me. And that scared him.

"We need to be together, Krystal," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "For Leo. We should keep vigil for him tonight. Together. Like a family."

My body stiffened, but my eyes remained closed. His words were a cruel mockery.

"Senator," a voice called from the door, tentative. "Ms. Young is asking for you. She's had a rough night."

He let out a low growl, a flicker of his old self. "Tell her I'll be there in a moment!" he snapped. Then he turned to me, his voice softening again, though it felt like a theatrical performance. "I'll be back tomorrow, Krystal. We'll go home. Together."

He left. I stayed awake all night, the image of Leo's innocent face, so full of life, flashing behind my eyelids. The sheer agony he must have felt, alone in the cold water. My heart felt torn to shreds, a gaping wound that would never heal. His little hands, reaching, gasping. My beautiful boy.

The next morning, Jonathan was there, waiting for me. He walked me out of the hospital, his hand on my back, a picture of a devoted husband. We drove home in silence, the air heavy with unspoken grief and the chilling certainty of my impending escape.

Our house, once filled with Leo's laughter, was now a mausoleum. The scent of lilies and sorrow hung heavy in the air. The living room had been transformed into a somber wake. Leo' s tiny coffin, draped in white, sat at the front.

I walked stiffly, my injured arm aching, my heart numb. As I approached the coffin, a figure lunged at me. Jonathan's mother. Her eyes were wild, her face contorted with rage.

"You murderer!" she screamed, her hand striking my face, then my chest. "You killed my grandson! You killed Leo!"

My head snapped back from the impact of her blow. The accusation hit me harder than the physical pain. It wasn't just her anger. It was… a familiar accusation. Too familiar.

I looked at Jonathan, who stood a few feet away. His eyes shifted, avoiding mine. A cold understanding settled over me. This wasn't just his mother's grief; this was his narrative. He had told them. He wanted me to be the scapegoat.

"Get out!" she shrieked, her voice raspy. "Get out of my son's house! You don't deserve to mourn him!"

Then, a wave of other relatives, fueled by their own grief and her venom, surged forward. Hands clawed at me, pushing, hitting. Words like "monster," "evil," "unfit mother" rained down.

I stumbled backwards, falling to my knees. A cousin, a woman who used to hug me tight, now spat on me. Another, a man who once helped me fix a leaky faucet, raised a heavy wooden stick, bringing it down on my shoulder.

"She doesn't deserve to be here!" someone yelled. "Get her out! She's cursed!"

They dragged me, bruised and bleeding, out of the house. Out of Leo's wake. They threw me onto the cold, damp lawn, slamming the door shut behind me. I lay there, abandoned, alone, deprived of even the right to say goodbye to my own son.