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“Sweetheart, the doctor said the IVF was a success. Let’s not see any blood. We don’t want to scare the baby.” His voice was a gentle coax, his eyes filled with a concern so convincing I almost applauded his performance.
Sensing my mood, Dante noticed the empty glass in front of me. He took upstairs to find me?” His words were laced with a careful, probing caution.
my
hand. “Honey, how long have you been here? Why didn’t you come
I looked down. “You men were talking business upstairs. It was all smoke and noise. I didn’t feel like it.”
He let out a breath of relief and stroked my head, ordering a maid to bring me a sobering tea. The moment she handed it over, he raised his gun and shot her in the head.
I didn’t even have time to react. Thick, warm blood splattered across my face. The maid’s hand was still outstretched, her eyes wide in disbelief as she collapsed.
My lips trembled. My stomach seized violently.
Dante acted as if nothing had happened. He holstered his gun, carefully wiped my face with his sleeve, and then held the cup of tea to my lips, feeding me sip by sip. I swallowed mechanically, my entire body shaking.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Marco’s men drag the maid’s body away, leaving a long, winding trail of blood on the polished floor.
“Couldn’t even watch my wife to make sure she didn’t drink,” Dante muttered, his voice cold. “That’s a threat to my son. She didn’t deserve to live.”
I stared at his ruthless face, my stomach churning.
He touched my cheek, his voice softening again. “It’s all my fault, baby. I’ve made you suffer so much. Now that we finally have our baby, you can’t touch alcohol again, understand?”
He added, “No matter what, this child has to be born healthy. You know that, right?”
I took several deep breaths before managing a dry, brittle, “Okay.”
My heart was frozen solid.
In three years of marriage, I had been pregnant six times. Each time, I miscarried for no apparent reason, eventually leading to recurrent pregnan- cy loss. Six months ago, the doctors told me I could never conceive again. Dante had held me, heartbroken, telling me he didn’t care about childr- en, that all he wanted was my happiness and health.
The guilt of not being able to give him a child had eaten away at me. After extensive research, I chose the arduous path of IVF. My stomach bec-
ame a pincushion, and I swallowed handfuls of hormone pills.
All that suffering, only to be a surrogate for Peaches. Because she was afraid of pain, I was to be stripped of my right to be a mother, reduced to a breeding machine.
www
“What’s wrong? You look so pale. Are you not feeling well? I’ll get the doctor right now.”
“I’m fine. Just some morning sickness.”
Dante’s eyes reddened with feigned sympathy. He stroked my face. “My poor wife, you’re going through so much. I wish i could bear this for you. We rushed our wedding… I’ve ordered you a custom–made wedding gown, your favorite designer. Let’s go try it on tomorrow before your belly gets too big,”
I stared at him, at his deeply affectionate eyes, playing me for a fool, time and time again.
If he knew I had no intention of carrying this child to term, my fate would be the same as that maid’s.
I forced a smile. “I’m going to go rest. You guys carry on.”
The moment I was back in our room, I ran to the bathroom and retched until my stomach was a knot of pure agony. Tears streamed down my face, the physical pain a fraction of the agony in my heart.
After a long while, I pulled myself together. That’s when I saw it–Dante’s phone, left forgotten on the coffee table.
On impulse, I picked it up. I only had to try once. Peaches‘ birthday. It unlocked.
the
The screen lit up with a photo of Peaches, leaning against his shoulder, her smile radiant.
I scrolled through his photo gallery. Over five thousand photos, and Peaches was in every single one. He had them organized into four folders, chronicling different periods of her life. Each folder was labeled with a single word. Together, they spelled out: My Only Love.
In their chat history, I saw that Dante had once risked his life to steal a royal crown for her. I suddenly remembered that night. He’d come back with two bullet wounds, barely clinging to life. It was I who had traded my mother’s only heirloom, a priceless antique amulet, to the royal family to get
him back.
And why? Because Peaches had casually mentioned she wanted to feel like a queen for her 25th birthday party.
A tear fell onto the screen. My heart felt like it was being shredded. It wasn’t the pain of years of deception. It was that for this monster who had
destroyed me, I had given away the only thing my mother had left me.
Through blurry eyes, my gaze fell on the crescent–moon–shaped birthmark on Peaches‘ right shoulder. My own eyes widened in shock.
I have the exact same birthmark, in the exact same spot.
I remembered when I first met Peaches, she didn’t have it. It was only after told her about the time I’d saved a man covered in blood while worki-
ng as a doctor without borders in a war–torn country that she started to distance herself from me. Soon after, she became Dante’s “adopted sister,”
and he began telling everyone that Peaches had saved his life.
But Peaches was a coward, terrified of hardship. She had never set foot in that country; in fact, she openly despised it.
My cold fingers curied into fists. A wild, horrifying suspicion began to form in my mind.
So that’s how it was.
I collapsed to the floor, caught between hysterical sobs and bitter laughter.
