“Are the wounds still hurting? How does it feel to be beaten all the time? And ‘handsome‘? Are you sure you re talking about your husband? The paparazzi shots I’ve seen tell a very different story.”
Her frantic showing off was a clear sign of her own deep–seated insecurity. Life on the island was not the paradise she had imagined. She thought she was being kept as a pampered pet, but she was just a toy for a sadist’s amusement. When he was feeling particularly cruel, he’d invite his friends to join in. They didn’t see
her as a person.
My message hit a nerve. She sent back a furious voice memo, her voice cracking. “My husband adores me He would never hurt me! You’re just jealous because you’ll never have what I have! You’re a pathetic bitch!”
I didn’t bother replying. I was done engaging with her.
Four months before my due date, Mia was still sending her pathetic boasts, though now the pictures were just of objects, with no sign of her at all. It wasn’t hard to guess why. She was probably too bruised and batt ered to be photographed. I muted her and moved on.
A month before I was due, Julian took a leave of absence from his project to be with me. After our son was born, he looked at me with that familiar, apologetic expression, struggling for words. I knew the project was in its final, critical phase. The fact that he’d managed to get a month off was a miracle. The money he’d sent, combined with my investment earnings, was more than enough for us to afford the best postnatal retreat in
the state.
I pulled him into a tight hug and whispered in his ear, “Go. The baby and I will be here waiting for you. We’ll be cheering you on.”
But the day I checked into the retreat, I ran into a woman dressed in the flowing, traditional robes of a desert kingdom. Her body was gaunt beneath the fabric.
“What’s the matter?” a raspy voice sneered. “Forget me already after just one year?”
Mia? What was she doing here?
Before I could answer, she continued her tirade. “How can you afford a place like this? Did you finally ditch that loser husband of yours for a rich old man?”
Her voice was loud and sharp, and heads immediately turned in our direction. My own recovery had been smooth; my face was glowing with health, which only seemed to enrage her further. She couldn’t comprehe- nd how, even after she’d “won” this time, I was still doing better than her.
Her eyes filled with a vicious light, and she lunged forward to slap me.
I dodged easily and, in one swift motion, yanked the scarf from her head.
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