Isabella Hawthorne
Days crawled by, each one a slow, monotonous blur.
Tonight was the fourth, and it had already managed to slip past in a haze of meaningless activities. Ashley, bless her energetic soul, had tried her best to keep us occupied. We'd spent an afternoon attempting to master the art of crocheting, resulting in a series of misshapen squares that resembled more a bird's nest than anything resembling Ashley's vision.
Gods, this manor felt like a cage at times. The opulent rooms, once impressive, now felt stifling with their heavy drapes and ornate furniture. I yearned for the open air, for the feel of sunlight warm on my skin, for the simple joy of a walk in the park. But escape was not an option. Not yet, not until I deliver my baby and figure out who the real father is
