"There is no revenge , ...........I know you didn't forgive me, and you shouldn't. Please… don't make me drag you home. Our children will forgive you for what happened. I know you didn't have a choice. Please — let us leave this place and go home."

"They won't forgive me," Amara shot back, her voice flat. "I know. I still can't forgive myself. I can't go back to that hell. Find someone else. Go to your lover. I know you still have something for her." Pain trembled at the edge of her words.

"You always knew the truth about what happened — you, of all people. Amara, let us go home, please." Maxwell stepped closer, begging.

"Then what?" she spat. "Let's say I come. You'll lock me in my cage again and treat me like a madwoman. You locked me in a room like an animal. Do you really think I accept that?"

"I locked you away to protect you from danger," Maxwell said, voice tight. "I know it was foolish, maybe cruel, but I had no choice. Believe me — I had no choice. You tried to kill yourself. I wasn't there. I couldn't know what to do. I thought leaving would save you." He let out a bitter, broken laugh.

"I wasn't crazy," Amara cried. "I didn't try to kill myself. But you believed your family over me. I told you I wasn't sick, and yet you believed everyone but me."

"I saw you! I saw you — trying to kill yourself. Not once," Maxwell shouted, pacing, every syllable a stab. "Not once! I believed my eyes."

"You think I don't remember?" she screamed back. "Why can't I remember? Why do you insist on making me into someone I'm not?"

"Do you have no memory of trying to kill the twins growing in your belly?" Maxwell asked, voice hollow with regret.

The question hit like a blow. Tears spilled from Amara unbidden. "Are you trying to hurt me?" she whispered. "I told you: if you wanted to kill me, just do it. I know you don't love me."

Maxwell's hand went to his head; he felt on the verge of collapse. "I love you. I love you," he said, the words raw and small.

"Is that why you paraded your bastard child before me?" Amara hissed, trembling with fury and weakness both. "Do you think I didn't notice? He looks like you. You—did you bring him here to rub it in?"

"What are you talking about, Amara? I did not— I did not sleep with her! He is—" Maxwell stammered, face paling.

"Do you hate me that much?" she asked, voice barely a blade.

"Amara, do you hear yourself?" Maxwell pleaded.

"At least respect our dead children," she said, voice breaking.

Maxwell staggered. "Dead?" he whispered, bewildered.

"No. I'm not going back. There is nothing waiting for me — not even you. Not that hell. I can't." Amara's scream broke into a sob. "Go live with your mistress and your bastard child. Leave me be. I'm tired. Please—don't use me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Maxwell exploded. "Our babies didn't die. They didn't— You don't even recognize your own son!" Anger and disbelief twisted his voice.

"My son?" Amara shook her head, incredulous. "Do you think I would believe that nonsense? What did you tell him? That I'm his mother begging to come back? Do you have a heart?"

"Are you joking? Is this some attempt to flee?" Maxwell demanded.

"Flee? A joke, Max? I killed them." The words landed between them like ice. "I felt their cold, lifeless bodies. Is this how you want me to suffer? Is this your game — to make me confess?"

"You think they died? You really think they died?" Maxwell whispered, choking on the possibility. He shook his head, unable to accept it. "I can't believe this. You really think they're dead?"

Silence fell, a vast, aching space in which neither answer could fully live.