Eight Years Of His Cold Betrayal

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roze mid-air. Tears, hot and stinging, blurred my vision. The recording of Aida's chilling confession, her t

wed at his arm, my nails tearing at his skin, my voice raw with a terror I had n

sending me crashing to the floor. He didn't spare me a glance. He simply turned, cradling the sobbing Aida

Damian' s instruction, were already moving towards Cristopher' s bed. They beg

eir faces impassive. I fought like a cornered animal, kicking, biting, screaming, but it was useless. My head hit

ees, pleading with the indifferent nurs

that now held a flicker of pity, whispered, "Beg

again. The phone rang, then went straight to voicemail. I tried again. Blocked. He had bloc

r's monitors. His chest, which had been barely

the wall. No. This isn't happening. I scrambled to his bedsi

d him, pumped his chest, shouted medical jargon. I clung to Cristopher' s hand, praying

his face grim. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. R

g his white coat. "You can't stop! Keep t

my fingers off his coat. "Th

scream tearing from my throat, a sound torn from the deepest depths of a broken soul. I scream

trators. I signed Cristopher's death certificate, my hand trembling, my mind numb. He was gone. My bri

, of exploring ancient cities, of swimming in turquoise seas. He had always yearned for freedom, for adventure. I would give it to him. I

at had become my prison. I fumbled for my key, but it wouldn't turn

. Rain began to fall, a cold, relentless deluge. I stood there, drenched, clutching Cristopher's urn to my chest, shield

, a triumphant smile on her face. She wore one of my most expensive silk dresses, purchased for a gal

. "What are you doing out in this awful weather? Come i

muddy prints on the pristine marble floor. I

, replaced by a grotesque modern sculpture. The delicate tapestries I had personally selected were replac

relegated to a heap of trash. And then, I saw it. The framed photo of Damian and me on our wedding day, a forced smile on my face, a cold, distant look in his. It was face dow

ifts for Damian over the years-a carved wooden pen, a sketchbook filled with architectural desig

y anger had been dulled by the sheer scale of their cruelty. They had not just ta

like the new decor, Jilly? Damian said he wanted a fresh start. Something... more mo

ed on the grand staircase. My room. I needed to see

her voice. She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin. "The

g with a cold fury. "Don't touch me,"

heatrical display of pain. She let out a small shriek, clutching her stom

a, my love! What's wrong?" he cried, rushing down the steps, a look of frantic concern on his fa

r, his gaze sweeping over me with c

physical, tore through my chest.

gnoring the burning pain in my leg. I burst i

fr

rased. The elegant four-poster bed was gone. My antique writing desk, where I had spent countless hours ske

red everywhere. A water bowl, a food bowl, and a scratching post sat proudly in the cor

me to inform you, Mrs. Ramsey, that Miss Reyes is feeling unwell. He has taken her to th

ing Cristopher' s ashes, was tucked away in

sed with a dangerous, icy rage. He