It's said that every wife expects a gift or at least a surprise on their wedding anniversary. And so did I.
I sit across from my husband in a dimly lit restaurant, dressed in the soft glow of chandeliers and anticipation. But his eyes cold, unreadable give nothing away.
"No matter what I do wrong, you'll forgive me," Damian says, voice trembling like he already knows the answer but still hopes. "Like you always do… right?"
I blink. Is he serious? What kind of question is that on our fifth anniversary?
He doesn't wait for my answer. He presses on.
"You know how much I've always wanted a baby. He'll be the heir to our company. But we've been trying for years… I even thought of giving up."
I lower my eyes to the small gift bag I'd placed on the table once filled with hope, now suddenly weightless. I gently push it back toward him.
Something feels wrong. Deeply wrong.
The way he drops the subject with a casual shrug makes my skin prickle. I brace myself. Whatever's coming next isn't going to be pleasant.
When I dare look at him again, his mouth is set in a straight, hard line.
That line God, I've seen it too many times. He's about to hurt me again, isn't he?
I was only twenty when my father arranged our marriage. Damian Westwood his name alone had shaken me. He wasn't just anyone. He was the Damian Westwood, the youngest heir of the powerful Westwood empire. The man every girl in SunCity dreamed of.
"Marry him, give him an heir, and our family's status will rise," my father had whispered, walking me down the aisle. "We'll be protected. Always."
And like the obedient daughter I was, I nodded. "I will."
But I didn't know protection meant prison.
Since that day, I did everything right. I became the flawless Mrs. Westwood calm, composed, supportive. I helped him close deals, rubbed shoulders with the elite, buried his secrets deep within me.
Aside from my failure to give him a child, I gave him everything.
But tonight on our fifth wedding anniversary he shatters the fragile balance we've lived with.
"Good news," he says, smiling like this is a toast. "Your sister, Ariella, is pregnant."
I blink. Ariella? My little sister? Quiet, shy Ariella who used to hide behind me when guests visited?
"I should be happy for her," I manage to say, voice hollow. "After all, she's my little sister. That's… great news."
But then he drops the axe.
"The child she's carrying is mine."
He says it like he's commenting on the weather.
I freeze.
The words slam into me, sharp and heavy, leaving me breathless. My hands tremble, and the noise of the restaurant fades into a cruel silence.
No. He didn't just say that. He couldn't have.
My heart lurches. My throat tightens.
How? Why? Why my sister?
I feel myself slipping sinking under the weight of betrayal. The man who once vowed, I'll forever be loyal to you, has burned that promise to ash in a single sentence.
My vision blurs. And before I even know what I'm doing, I'm in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing anchoring me to this world.
I drive through the night, tears blinding me. Toward Ariella. Toward the truth.
An hour later
I slam the doorbell with shaking fingers.
Please. Let this be a nightmare. Let me wake up in bed with his arms around me, whispering that it was just a bad dream.
But the door opens.
Ariella stands there in a white bathrobe, damp blonde hair sticking to her skin. Water drips from her collarbone, trailing down to the floor.
She looks calm. Too calm. As if she's been waiting for me.
She doesn't even blink.
She knew. She knew I'd come.
"Why?" My voice cracks. "Why did you decide to take everything from me? Why you?"
She just looks at me, her face unreadable, then glances behind me like I'm nothing.
"Answer me!" I scream. "This is a blow to me ,a forever embarrassment!"
Still, nothing.
Then she doubles over and clutches her stomach. A voice behind me shouts. Ariella cries out, "Help! Help! She's trying to kill me and my baby!"
I spin around in confusion.What? No!
Then I see it. Blood. Flowing down her leg.
My mouth falls open. "No… no, it's not me…"
Before I can move, two large men grab me roughly.
"Wait! I'm Mrs. Westwood! You can't do this to me!"
But they don't listen. No one listens.
My heartbeat drowns out every sound around me.
I wake up to stone. Cold, damp, suffocating. A prison.
There are no windows. Only silence. And the overwhelming stench of mildew and death.
A Westwood prison.
Yes. Ariella lost the baby. And blamed me.
I tried to explain, but Damian never listened. He locked me in here like some disposable mistake.
"What are you screaming about?" a guard snarls, unlocking the cell. A whip cracks across my skin, and I bite back a scream.
"You need to learn to be quiet," he hisses, striking me again.
I won't cry. I won't let them see me break.
"I want to see my husband. Damian. I need to tell him… I'm pregnant."
He laughs, a deep and dirty sound. "You sure it's his?"
He squats in front of me, eyes shamelessly crawling across my body. "I've never tasted the boss's wife. Is your wet garden salty too?"
I spit in his face. "Shut your filthy mouth! I am Mrs. Westwood! Tell Damian I demand to see him!"
He wipes his cheek, chuckling darkly.
"There's no Mrs. Westwood here. Just prisoners. And the boss? He knows female prisoners get ridden like horses. You think he'll believe the baby in your belly is his?"
Please, God… let Damian hear me. Let him know. Let him come.
My voice softens. "How can you help me?"
His grin spreads. "You know what to do," he murmurs, reaching for his belt.
Then a phone rings. His.
He grunts, pulling his pants up and leaving the cell.
When he returns, belt fastened, he scowls at me.
"You're lucky. Someone will see you in five minutes," he mutters, voice tight with disappointment.
Five minutes. I don't know who it is. But I'll fight. I'll crawl out of this pit with my baby. And I'll make them all pay.