You Lost More Than a Wife

At my third wedding anniversary party with Oscar Ashford, his assistant, Sloane, deliberately shoved our anniversary cake into my expensive custom gown. I slapped her. Then I grabbed a handful of the ruined cake and smeared it right back across her face.

That night, on a massive screen at the family's charity gala, a live feed of him and Sloane kissing passionately in a backstage corner flashed across the screen.

My mother had a heart attack watching it. She died without ever waking up. And while I was kneeling on the cold hospital floor, he was in Sloane's apartment, calming her down with a shopping spree—on our joint account.

He came home reeking of alcohol, striding past my disheveled state to order me to the seaside estate to care for Sloane. She’d been frightened, he claimed, and needed to rest for the sake of his unborn child. He seized my chin, his voice dropping to a low threat, warning me that if anything happened to his only heir, he would make my life a living hell.

After he left, I retrieved the divorce papers my lawyer had drafted from the safe in my art studio. Lying next to them was my ultrasound.

I stared at the blurry, black-and-white image. Oscar, I thought, my heart a stone, in three days, you’re going to find out you lost more than just a wife.

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1

Before Oscar Ashford left, he tossed a black card onto the sofa.

"Consider it a small price to pay for that handprint on your face," he said, his tone glacial.

I stared blankly at the card. After a long moment, I lifted my head to meet his gaze.

"My mother is dead. She saw the video of you two at the gala and had a heart attack."

Oscar's hand paused mid-way through loosening his tie.

A moment later, a derisive laugh escaped him. "Clara, you've perfected the damsel-in-distress act," he scoffed. "Wasn't it just three days ago she was on the phone, lecturing me about how I'd never be good enough for you?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but he had already turned, heading for the door.

He paused as he passed me. "If you must blame someone, blame your own useless body. Not only are you barren, you can't even keep your mouth shut."

He reached out, his fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to look into his cold eyes. "Behave yourself. Go take care of Sloane. Once she has the baby, you'll get every penny I promised you."

With a final, dismissive shove, he strode away.

The moment the door slammed shut, the ultrasound I had been clutching fluttered to the floor.

I was lost in a fog of grief until the butler, Marcus, knocked on the door.

"Miss Beaumont, the car is ready."

To appease Sloane, Oscar had ordered all the servants to address her as Mrs. Ashford. And me? The woman who’d exchanged vows with him at the altar was now just "Miss Beaumont."

I ignored Marcus, continuing to pack my mother's art supplies into a case.

Less than five minutes later, the door was thrown open. Several bodyguards marched in, grabbed me without a word, and forced me into the waiting car.

When we arrived at the seaside estate, Sloane was lounging on a leather sofa in the living room, flipping through a fashion magazine.

She glanced at my pathetic state and sneered.

"Looks like Oscar wasn't too gentle with you." She picked up a menu from the coffee table and tossed it at my feet. "I want these for dinner. Have them in my room in an hour."

I bent down, picked up the menu, and glanced at the dishes. Without a word, I walked straight to the kitchen.

My quiet compliance clearly unsettled Sloane. After all, I had slapped her just the day before.

What she didn't know was that the moment my mother’s heart stopped, the love I had for Oscar died with her.

This man had destroyed the last and dearest person in my life. All I wanted was to survive the next three days, then vanish from his world forever.

Following the menu, I prepared three main courses and two desserts, all tailored to Sloane’s favorite tastes.

But she only took a few bites before suddenly clutching her throat, her face contorting as she gasped for air.

"Help! I can't breathe!"

Less than ten minutes later, Oscar burst into the estate. He shoved me aside, swept Sloane into his arms, and sped to the hospital.

While we waited outside the emergency room, the doctor informed us that Sloane had a severe peanut allergy and was being treated.

However, the menu she had given me clearly listed three dishes containing peanut butter.

Oscar's head whipped toward me.

"Didn't I tell you she was allergic to peanuts? If anything happens to my child, I'll destroy you!"

With a wave of his hand, he summoned Marcus. "Lock this crazy woman in the east wing to think about what she's done. Don't let her out without my order!"

I instinctively shielded my lower abdomen. The east wing, once the mansion's most luxurious suite, had been left to rot after a fire ten years ago, now just a ruin of dust and mold.

And I was severely allergic to both.

When Oscar had first pursued me, he once filled a room with dried flowers as a surprise. I went into anaphylactic shock on the spot and was rushed to the hospital.

He had been panicked, like a lost child, staying by my bedside, crying and apologizing until I woke up. From that day on, every place we lived was kept immaculate, not a speck of pollen allowed.

But now...

I had no energy left to explain. I just said softly, "Oscar, I'm pregnant. Locking me in there will kill our baby."

Oscar stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me.

Then he smiled, a cruel, mocking twist of his lips.

"Clara, I know your body better than anyone. Don't try to fool me with such a pathetic lie again."

He paused, his voice dropping to a glacial whisper. "If there's a next time, you can stay in there for the rest of your life."

The bodyguards started advancing on me. I raised a hand to stop them.

I followed them out of the emergency room corridor. Seeing my willing cooperation, Oscar's body visibly stiffened, and he subconsciously took a step forward.

But just then, the doctor pushed open the door.

He immediately pivoted and strode toward the hospital room. His tense shoulders only relaxed when he heard that Sloane and the baby were both fine.

Soon, I was taken to the abandoned room in the estate's east wing.

The moment the door closed, the heavy, cloying scent of mold and dust hit me like a physical blow.

In less than five minutes, I began to cough violently, each gasp for air harder than the last.

A gut-wrenching cramp shot through my lower abdomen. I clutched my stomach and collapsed, my body convulsing on the grimy floor.

Blood seeped from between my legs, a stark crimson stain on the gray dust.

I clawed at the wall, trying to pull myself up, to knock on the door for help, but as my hand touched the knob, all my strength deserted me.

The only thing in the room still intact was the dusty portrait of an Ashford ancestor on the wall. The man in the painting looked down at me with cold, indifferent eyes.

Just like Oscar.

I don't know how much time passed before the door was finally kicked open. The man I had loved for years rushed toward me, his features contorted in raw panic.