The year I felt most unloved, Benjamin Carter tattooed my favorite rose on his chest.

He promised me, “Love will never be my shackle.”

Three years ago, I gave up my career and married him for love.

Three years later, I decided to leave him behind.

I looked at the tattoo on his chest, now distorted, and remembered the moment he kicked my seven-month-pregnant belly.

Taking a deep breath, I finally spoke the words: “Let’s divorce.”

Benjamin frowned, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Amelia, you want to divorce me over a tattoo?”

I met his gaze, my tone icy.

“Yes. Just for this.”

The venomous snake entwined around the rose had suffocated it, much like he had suffocated me.

It was time to let go.

Alone, I went to the hospital and made the painful decision to remove the baby I could no longer protect.

That evening, Benjamin returned home reeking of alcohol.

His shirt was stained, and without a word, I reached to unbutton it, intending to clean it.

But as the fabric slipped away, I froze.

The once-delicate, vibrant rose on his chest had been consumed.

A venomous snake wrapped tightly around it, its fangs poised to tear the rose apart.

The ink was fresh, the red marks of the needle still visible.

My heart raced wildly, but the moment shattered when Benjamin’s impatient voice cut through the air.

“Don’t touch me. I’m sleeping in the second bedroom.”

Before I could ask why, he slammed the door behind him.

I sat in silence, my eyes drifting to his phone as its screen lit up.

“This is so funny hahaha.”

A woman’s intuition whispered that this wasn’t innocent.

I reached for the phone, but the lock screen wouldn’t budge.

The password had been changed—just like everything else about him.

Benjamin’s voice cut through the room, sharp and impatient.

“Amelia, who the hell gave you permission to touch my phone?”

I held my ground, my voice steady.

“Who is she?”

He snatched the phone from my hands and turned his back to me, his fingers tapping rapidly on the screen. He didn’t answer.

“Benjamin, who is she?” I repeated, louder this time.

Without warning, he shoved me hard. I stumbled, my stomach slamming into the edge of the cabinet. Pain surged through me, leaving me gasping on the floor.

“Benjamin, my stomach hurts,” I whimpered, clutching at the ache radiating through my body.

He looked down at me with cold indifference, his phone still in his hand.

“Stop pretending. Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re pregnant.”

A notification lit up his screen, and I saw the faintest smile flicker across his face—a smile he never gave me anymore.

His cruelty pierced deeper than my pain.

“He’s your child too. How can you be so heartless?” I managed to say, my voice trembling.

His gaze was icy, devoid of any guilt.

“Amelia, you know better than anyone how this child came to be.”

He sneered.

“If you wanted this baby, don’t expect me to take responsibility.”

My body ached, and panic surged as I felt warmth spreading beneath me. Blood.

“Benjamin, please,” I begged.

“Take me to the hospital. Please, I’m in pain!”

He didn’t move. Instead, his phone rang, and he answered it with a voice I barely recognized—gentle, soft, filled with warmth.

“Isabelle, I’ll be there soon.”

Desperation clawed at me. I lunged for his phone, hoping to shatter it, to force him to see me. But he shoved me away again, harder this time.

Then his foot connected with my stomach. The scream tore from my throat, the agony unbearable.

His expression didn’t change.

“Amelia, you should be thankful I took her call. Otherwise, you’d regret it even more.”

Tears blurred my vision, but anger burned hotter than the pain.

“Divorce,” I spat, my voice hoarse.

“Benjamin, I want a divorce!”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head as he dressed.

“You’re making a fuss over nothing. Divorce? Over a tattoo?”

He looked at me as though I were nothing.

“Are you that cheap, Amelia?”

I let out a hollow laugh, my chest tight with fury and heartbreak.

“Yes. For the tattoo. For everything it means. I’m done.”

He pushed the door open and left without a second glance.

“This tattoo doesn’t mean anything. If you like roses so much, you can get one yourself—after you’ve had the baby.”

The pain in my stomach was unbearable. I couldn’t even stand upright, no matter how much I screamed for him. Benjamin didn’t turn back.

I clung to consciousness, fighting against the waves of agony threatening to pull me under. Summoning every ounce of strength, I managed to call for an ambulance.

When I woke up, the pain jolted me again, sharp and unrelenting. The sterile scent of the hospital filled my senses. I was alone in the ward.

Disappointment settled deep in my chest.

A nurse murmured nearby, her voice dripping with sympathy.

“She’s so pitiful. That man should rot for his domestic violence.”

But another voice interrupted, colder, judgmental.

“Maybe she chased after the old man’s money and got beaten for being a homewrecker. A woman like that doesn’t deserve sympathy.”

“Or maybe she wanted to get rid of the child and used this as an excuse.”

Their words pierced me, but I refused to show weakness. I turned my cold gaze toward them, silencing the room. The nurse scoffed and left.

Lying there, I made my decision.

I didn’t want Benjamin anymore.

And I didn’t want the child either.

I called for a doctor to discuss terminating the pregnancy.

The doctor hesitated, her tone gentle but firm.

“The baby is healthy. If there’s any chance of keeping it, please reconsider. The child is innocent.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled up my hospital gown, exposing the fresh bruises on my stomach.

My voice cracked as I sobbed, “I can’t keep this child. I can’t forgive the pain he’s caused me.”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head.

“Think carefully. A decision like this is final. With your past injuries, you might not be able to conceive again.”

Her words hung in the air like a heavy weight.

Later, staring at the ultrasound image on the screen, my resolve wavered. The baby’s delicate features had begun to take shape. His eyes and nose mirrored mine—and Benjamin’s.

This was the child I had carried for seven months.

I stumbled out of the clinic, disheveled and drained, and sank onto a cold bench.

Alone, I scrolled through my phone.

Benjamin’s text messages flashed on the screen, sharp and accusing:

[Spend less money. Money is hard to make.]

Right below were messages from his mother:

[My son works so hard every day. You can’t just spend all his hard-earned money.]

[You don’t work. How could you possibly understand the value of hard work?]

Not a single word of concern. No one asked if I was okay, if I was unwell, or why I was at the hospital.

Every cent I spent, if not on Benjamin, was met with scrutiny and suspicion.

My mind drifted back to the name I glimpsed on Benjamin’s phone. My fingers trembled as I searched it on the platform.

The latest video loaded instantly.

[Even when he’s drunk, he still comes to me.]

The man in the video had most of his face obscured, but his smile—faint and familiar—was unmistakable. The watch on his wrist confirmed it.

Benjamin.

The girl nestled against him, her posture intimate.

I scrolled through video after video, each one a snapshot of their happiness, each one a betrayal etched across the past three years of my life.

When I opened the comments, a glint on my wrist caught my eye.

[Wow, such an expensive necklace—and the bracelet is gorgeous! My sister gave it to me!]

My heart sank. The gift I had once cherished, the one I had so eagerly awaited, was nothing more than a cast-off, something his sweetheart had rejected.

The comments buzzed with admiration:

[The blogger is rich and stunning, and her boyfriend is so handsome!]

Isabelle’s reply was simple but deliberate:

"Benjamin is the best to me~"

She didn’t even bother denying their relationship.

I clicked on an older, dormant account by accident. A video played. The girl in it looked eerily like Isabelle but wasn’t her.

Her soft voice echoed:

"Benjamin, would you give everything for me?"

The camera shifted, revealing a younger Benjamin. The love in his eyes was impossible to miss as he responded:

"Maxine, I would."

He took the girl’s hand and kissed it, his devotion written in every gesture.

The screen flipped again, now showing a scene in the snow. Benjamin, his youthful self, picking up a girl with tender care—only to throw her to the ground.

My chest tightened.

The girl on the screen trembled in the snow, her face etched with pain.

It was me.

It was me—ruined by Benjamin.

The phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the ground, but the pain in my chest was far worse.

Fragments of memories echoed in my mind:

"Classmate, I don’t like this kind of joke."

"Classmate, please—I still have to take the art exam..."

"Classmate..."

The voice grew fainter, dissolving into silence, as if it were slipping away with the phone that lay shattered on the floor.

Then, a loud bang.

"Maxine, don’t... don’t!!"

When the phone was picked up again, the video resumed. A younger Benjamin appeared, his eyes red with desperation.

It hit me like a tidal wave. The murderer who couldn’t be identified, the justice that was never served—it had all been deliberate.

And because of that, my father had died, consumed by grief and anger.

I was left behind to pick up the pieces. My repeated efforts to salvage my life led to nothing more than a mediocre admission into a second-tier university. My body, so frail it could barely stand, and my knees, throbbing with pain after only a few steps, crushed whatever pride I had left.

I cried until I had no more tears to shed.

With trembling hands, I signed the agreement to consent to an abortion.

Moments later, a private message from Isabelle appeared.

[Amelia, Benjamin and I are just ordinary friends.]

Attached was a photo of Benjamin holding her close, his hand gently patting her shoulder.

Her messages kept coming:

[Amy, it’s all my fault for being so stupid. Otherwise, why would he spend late nights accompanying me?]

[Amy, you’re so beautiful. Why does he like me instead?]

I stared at her words, her taunts wrapped in faux innocence. My lips curved into a bitter smile.

[You’re just a stand-in. Can you ever compare to Maxine?]

She didn’t hesitate to respond:

[It doesn’t matter. We’re all family, after all. We can’t let outsiders take advantage, can we?]

Her words twisted my stomach into knots. I couldn’t stop the nausea from rising. I leaned over and vomited, the taste of bile lingering on my tongue.

Enough.

I drafted a divorce agreement.

When I finally returned home, the sun was at its peak.

Benjamin's mother had been waiting at home for a long time.

The moment I stepped inside, her sharp gaze landed on me. She wasted no time before scolding, "You actually have the nerve to sit around while my son works himself to the bone? He has stomach problems! How can you bear to let him suffer like this?"

Her tone was biting, as always. She had risen to wealth and status midway through her life, but her stinginess remained unchanged. Or maybe, she simply didn’t want me to have an easy life.

I lowered myself onto the couch, cradling my pregnant belly. "I’m pregnant. Does that make my life any easier?"

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, please. That child isn’t just Benjamin’s responsibility. He works so hard; what’s wrong with you working harder, too?"

She moved toward the table, dividing the neatly arranged dishes into two portions. The organic vegetables she prided herself on went onto one plate, while the blemished ones—the ones with wormholes—were tossed onto another.

She shoved the cheaper plate toward me. "Amelia, you eat this. As for this one, prepare it and cook it properly for Benjamin. He needs good nutrition to keep earning money."

Then she settled into the sofa, the TV remote in hand, but her eyes never left me, quietly scrutinizing my every move.

"We aren’t an ordinary family, you know," she continued, her voice dripping with superiority. "Living in this big flat costs money. Hiring a nanny isn’t free either. You don’t work, so why should you be sitting around doing nothing?"

Her words stung, but I knew better than to expect sympathy from her. She only cared for her son, never for me.

I snapped, grabbing the plate of vegetables she’d thrown at me and flinging it back at her. "He’s your son, not mine!"

She shrieked as the plate clattered to the ground, half-sitting on the floor, clutching her arm dramatically. Then, as if on cue, she started wailing and rolling around.

I glanced toward the door—Benjamin was home.

His mother always loved putting on a show for him.

Benjamin stepped in, his brows furrowed in displeasure. "Amelia, what are you doing? She’s also your mother."

I felt a bitter laugh rise in my throat. "She is not my mother," I said coldly. "My mother would actually care about me."

Benjamin didn’t respond. He just stood there, letting his mother rant and insult me.

Then he looked at my belly, his expression hardening. "Amelia, this is the child you wanted. I don’t care if you feel sorry for yourself, but at least feel sorry for it."

I stared at him, my chest tightening with anger and disgust. The absurdity of it all made me laugh bitterly.

"This child?" I said, my voice trembling with rage. "This is the child your mother wanted. She’s the one who swapped out the contraceptive pills."