My Husband Says His Lovers Baby Is Mine

Savannah Nichols opened the door and stepped into the dark room, reaching out to flip the switch. Instantly, the room lit up.

She lifted her eyes toward the old, worn-out bed and curled her lips into a cruel smile.

On the bed, Sigourney Nichols lay writhing in agony and pain.

She kept struggling to break free from the two shackles tightly clamping her wrists, but with her current frail strength, it was utterly impossible.

Her eyes, filled with resentment, glared at her younger sister as if she wanted to devour her alive.

She never imagined that the person she loved most, the one closest to her, would be the very one to bring her to this wretched state.

Savannah closed the door and slowly approached the bed. She reached out, pulled away the cloth gagging Sigourney's mouth, then calmly dragged a chair nearby and sat down.

"Cough... A..." Sigourney coughed violently, choked with rage.

Savannah placed a glass cup on the bedside table, then gripped Sigourney's chin firmly, lifting it up.

"Sister, why don't you know how to stay in your place?"

Despite her dire situation, despite her utter helplessness to resist, Sigourney steadied herself and responded coldly:

"You bitch! I don't have a sister like you!"

Her eyes welled up, turning red, but she forced herself not to shed tears.

Because only now, too late, did she finally realise-the sweet, affectionate little sister who always clung to her, the one she trusted completely-this was her true face. And in return for that trust, this was the outcome she received?

That all-too-familiar innocent smile once again appeared on Savannah's deceitful face.

"I've been taking such good care of you for a whole month, yet every day you keep cursing me like this?"

Good care? What a joke. Sigourney let out a derisive chuckle and turned her face away.

After deceiving her into getting a divorce, Savannah orchestrated Sigourney's supposed "death" and imprisoned her here.

Of course, by now, no one knew she was still alive. Over a month had passed-surely, her grave was covered in green grass by now.

Every day, she received Savannah's so-called "care"-meals even dogs wouldn't touch.

Various dishes, ranging from raw meat to rotting flesh, from vegetables left out for two or three nights until they became slimy and reeked of a putrid stench.

That was what Sigourney had been forced to eat for the past month.

And that wasn't all.

Her delicate body was now covered in bruises and wounds, black and blue patches marring her skin.

The bed she lay on was electrically charged-so with every meal, she had to endure an extra "dessert" of bone-deep convulsions.

Escape was impossible. Even suicide was out of the question. The only thing she could do was grit her teeth and endure.

This would end. It had to end.

But the ending awaiting Sigourney would be more wretched than any miserable fate she could have imagined.

And her "dear little sister" had never once let her go hungry. How... very "thoughtful" of her.

Savannah reached for the glass on the table, gently swirling it so that whatever was inside could dissolve more quickly.