In the second year of our marriage, which Brett Mason had secured through relentless means, he brought home his latest conquest—a stunning blonde.

As the door swung shut, he ran his fingers through her silky hair, flashing me a smug, triumphant grin. "Wanna join us? You might learn a thing or two about not being such a dead fish."

I could still recall how he once adored my hair, claiming that just stroking it would melt away his deepest worries.

It turned out any woman could serve that purpose.

In that instant, a profound sense of release washed over me.

I retrieved the divorce agreement I'd stashed away in a drawer and handed it to him. "Sign it, and I'll make room for her."

My days were numbered, and I had no intention of wasting what little time remained entangled in his resentment.

...

From the moment I presented the divorce papers, Brett Mason's face darkened like a gathering storm.

Sylvie Green, nestled in his arms, recoiled at his sudden intensity, her fingers tightening around her bag as she slipped out of the room.

Now, it was just the two of us, the air thick with tension.

Without warning, he closed the distance in swift strides, his hand shooting out to seize my chin in a vise-like grip.

Pinning me against the cold wall, he growled, "Why is it always you who gets to call it quits?"

I held my tongue, my gaze locked on his furious eyes, where my reflection stared back.

I was pale, gaunt, and utterly drained, a far cry from the vibrant young woman he'd just paraded in.

In the tense silence, he abruptly flung the agreement aside and lunged, his lips crashing against mine in a savage bite. "I've always known it. You're far crueler than I could ever be!"

But it wasn't cruelty. I simply couldn't afford to linger in this toxic cycle any longer.

"Brett, stop!" I struggled, pushing against his chest.

But he lifted me off my feet and tossed me onto the sofa like discarded luggage, his body weight pinning me down without mercy.

My muffled cries and desperate pleas dissolved into the ether as he overpowered me with ruthless force.

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, cooling as they traced paths of despair. Memories from our happier past surged, dragging me into an abyss.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest, stealing my breath, while nausea roiled in my gut like a violent storm.

His ragged breaths merged with echoes from a nightmare past. As the confusion peaked, he leaned closer, his palm gently covering my eyes as he kissed away the saline trails.

"Erika..." he murmured, his voice so soft it might have been an illusion.

In a moment of despair, I shoved him away with what strength I had left and scrambled to the bed's edge, retching violently.

"Always the same damn reaction," he scoffed, his desire evaporating as he dressed methodically.

Moonlight streamed through the window. His gaze drifted to some distant point, and a bitter chuckle escaped him.

Towering over me, he delivered his parting shot with biting sarcasm. "I'm no longer that pathetic dog you toyed with back then. No matter how much you despise me, you'll endure it."

He could never understand that it wasn't despise.

I was gravely ill.

...

The roar of his car's engine faded into the night.

I dragged myself up, gathering my scattered clothes, when my phone tumbled from a pocket, its screen glowing.

There was a missed call from moments ago. It was Stanley Allen.

Once I'd dressed, I dialed him back.

He answered the call immediately, his voice urgent. "What happened? I thought you collapsed from another episode."

"It's not that severe," I replied, forcing a weak smile as I gazed at the empty, moonlit courtyard, where cobblestones gleamed coldly.

Stanley drew in a sharp breath, his frustration barely contained. "I'm your doctor. You've delayed treatment for two years. Surgery is critical now. Brett needs to..."

"He doesn't want to know," I interrupted, my grip tightening on the phone, my voice strained.

He'd made it clear the other day that anything about me was not his concern.

"This is on me," Stanley sighed, laden with guilt. "If I hadn't urged you to return and seek treatment here, things with him wouldn't have spiraled like this."

"It's not your fault," I snuffled, my eyes stinging as I fought back tears. "This rift between us is inevitable. Don't worry. I'll handle the treatment soon."

"And the therapy sessions," he insisted.

I agreed and ended the call, my eyes drifting to a spot on the bookshelf.

It was the small, dusty box I'd gifted Brett before my departure five years ago. It held letters I'd penned and a blank diary for him to fill.

I could still recall him holding me close, his tone sulky. "One entry per day for a whole year?"

"Too hard?" I'd teased, tilting my head.

He'd chuckled, burying his face in my hair. "Not really. I'm just worried that a diary simply can't contain all the love and longing I have for you."

True to his words, the diary brimmed with entries, pages crammed with his scrawled thoughts in that familiar, looping handwriting.

Certain phrases repeated like a mantra, leaping from the paper with insistent frequency.

[Love you. Miss you terribly. Waiting for you. Getting married...]

Yet, as I flipped to the final page, there were only three words.

[I hate you.]

The vehement strokes nearly tore through the paper. They seemed intent on branding themselves into eternity.

The date inscribed below was November 27th—Brett's mother's death anniversary.

On the same day, I'd called him to end it all.

...

My medication was running low, pain keeping sleep at bay.

I was in a hazy limbo until Sylvie's call pierced through. She suggested meeting at a café near the hospital.

Arriving, I found her perched elegantly at a table. Her youthful glow effortlessly turned heads.

No sooner had I settled into the seat opposite her than she slapped a lab report onto the table. "I'm pregnant with Brett's child."

The news hit me like a slap, and my ears rang.

My gaze dropped to her flat abdomen, a suffocating weight pressing down. Still, I managed a faint smile. "Oh, congratulations."

"Perfect timing, right? Just as you're divorcing," she said, her eyes gleaming with joy and a hint of provocation. "If I tell Brett, do you think he'll sign that agreement immediately?"

The ache in my body intensified. I offered a noncommittal hum, my mind drifting to my impending appointment with Stanley for more medication.

I rose to leave, but she persisted, shouting after me, "I've always wondered how someone like you became Mrs. Mason. I heard you dumped him when he was at his lowest. In two years of marriage, you've never made him happy. Why didn't you just die abroad?"

Her accusations drew curious glances from nearby customers, their judgmental stares pricking my skin like needles.

I halted, then pivoted slowly, closing the distance with deliberate steps.

"I considered it back then, but fate delayed it," I confessed. "Now I'm ill and have no energy to fight over him. If you're not afraid of what I might do in desperation, go ahead and push your luck."

My unexpected candor and proximity frightened her. She didn't dare to utter a sound until I walked out of the café.

The hospital loomed just across the street, but a sudden reluctance gripped me.

I lingered on the sidewalk, watching as the flakes of snow drifted from the gray sky, twinkling like stars beneath the warm glow of streetlamps.

The scene evoked a long-buried memory from a snowy night years ago, when Brett and I had our first fight.

His friends had gossiped about him marrying a suitable heiress, ditching someone like me from a lesser background.

Insecurity festered within me, and I channeled my hurt into a trivial spat over nothing.

Love was a delicate illusion, its glossy exterior concealing a core of vulnerability and fear.

That night, he drove over 200 kilometers from home to my school.

Clad in a thin coat, he stood beneath the amber streetlamp, his cheeks flushed from the biting cold. His eyes rimmed red as if he'd shed tears on the journey.

I approached with a stern face, but the snow crystals adorning his lashes melted my resolve.

"What are you doing here? Don't you realize the risks of driving in this blizzard?" I sulked.

He flung open his coat, drawing me into its warmth. His voice cracked with emotion. "Don't scold me, Erika. I don't want to see you unhappy. They were talking nonsense. You're the only one for me, now and forever."

Arguments back then were resolved quickly. No one could have foreseen this bitter end.

...

I bypassed Stanley entirely, opting instead for sleeping pills from a nearby pharmacy.

My aspirations were modest: oblivion, even if fleeting, to escape the torment.

By the time I returned home, night had cloaked the world in impenetrable darkness.

My fingerprint scan halted midway as the door swung open. Brett stood there, his eyes locking onto mine.

The sensor light above twinkled like captured stars in his gaze.

"Where have you been?" he asked, a rare softness smoothing the usual hard edges of his demeanor.

For a moment, I yearned to surrender to that illusion and to let him hold me as he once did, but the specter of Sylvie quashed it.

"Just out for a walk," I mumbled, brushing past him.

My eyes landed on the dining table, where a cake sat. Only then did I remember that it was my birthday.

From behind, he closed in and held me, his hand slipping into my pocket to lace our fingers.

"Let's stop this fighting," Brett murmured, his chin resting on my shoulder. "Forget those unhappy things. We'll go back to how we were. Good?"

Our entwined shadows danced on the polished floor under the soft lamplight, and my heart softened shamefully.

But then, reality intruded. The chasm between us was already unbridgeable.

I wanted to tell him about Sylvie's pregnancy, but he preempted me. "What's this?"

He pulled his hand from my pocket, holding the bottle of pills I'd just bought. His warmth lingered on my skin, but I clenched my empty fist nervously.

I was both afraid and expectant that he would ask why I'd need them or if I was sick.

He didn't.

In my anxious silence, he stared at the label and let out a mocking chuckle. "I waited all this time, and you were at the hospital with Stanley?"

His warmth evaporated, replaced by icy detachment. "Otherwise, why would a heartless woman like you need these? Can't sleep without him?"

I met his gaze, the once-warm eyes now filled with blatant scorn.

Emotions choked me. My hand lashed out before I could think, connecting with his cheek in a resounding slap.

He reeled, a vivid red imprint blooming across his skin. As he turned his head back, his features contorted into something feral and unforgiving.

"Hit a nerve?" he sneered. "These past two years, how many times have you seen him behind my back? You think I'm a fool?"

Tears welled, scorching my eyes, but I held his gaze defiantly. "Then end this farce! I never desired this marriage in the first place!"

His composure cracked, pain flickering before hardening into rage. "Yes, I'm the idiot who clung to you!"

Seizing my arm, he dragged me to the bedroom, his fingers bruising as he ripped at my clothing in a blind fury. "All you crave is Stanley, isn't it? I'll make sure you never see him again!"

He bore down, parting my legs with forceful insistence.

My entreaties fell on deaf ears. Once more, he plunged me into an abyss of shadows and suffering.

...

Brett locked me up, staying at home and abandoning his corporate duties.

His new routine consisted of preparing meals, reading newspapers, pounding the treadmill during the day, and unlocking my door at night.

In the bathroom, I counted my remaining pills, the tiny capsules mocking my desperation.

Even with strict rationing, only a last dose remained. My body screamed in protest, every nerve alight with fire.

I shoved the pills into my mouth and swallowed them numbly.

Suddenly, the door handle rattled. Then it swung open to reveal Brett, his expression inscrutable in the harsh fluorescent light.

I strained to discern his features, but only his advancing shadow registered, enveloping me like a shroud.

His voice was eerily calm. "Why must you always defy me?"

I looked up, my voice and body trembling from the agony. "What do you want from me?"

He crouched, prying open my hand to seize the vial. Caressing my cheek with deceptive tenderness, he replied, "I want you to bear my child."

The world swam in hazy distortion, agony shredding my thoughts.

I clutched his wrist, begging, "Sylvie can do that for you. Give me back the bottle."

Silence met my plea.

Under my horrified watch, he discarded the bottle and ground it beneath his heel.

I crumpled to the tile, writhing. "Do you want me to die?"

Warm blood trickled from my nostrils, the coppery tang flooding my senses.

"You forced my hand!" he bellowed, hauling me up by my collar. "Why do I always fall short in your eyes? Why did your time abroad change you so profoundly? How could you stop loving me so easily? Answer me!"

Words failed me, lost in the haze.

A rhythmic patter came from the floor, viscous and ominous.

"Erika?" His voice wavered with sudden panic.

He cradled my face, his eyes wide with terror.

As darkness claimed me, his frantic cries pierced the fog. "What's going on? You're scaring me. Erika!"