through the foyer, past the stunned faces of his remaining guests and the concerned look of his butler. H

rom mine. "You think I'll let you off that easily? You belong

is eyes flickered down to my stomach, where a fresh stain of red was beginning to seep through my dress. A fli

se. In our life together, "I'm sorry" was the only safe

length of the room. "You're always sorry. Sorry for

constant reminder of the pain he carried, the pain my family had supposedly caused. Fo

ing. A team of specialists would rub specially formulated lotions into my skin, the massage so intense it left bruises. T

nt possession. His business associates, drunk on power and champagne, would corner me, their hands roaming freely over my body,

driven only by a cold, calculating need. He didn't want a child. He wanted the "placenta." The wo

st it. Miscarriages, he called them. But I knew the truth. The last two were terminations, scheduled by him, the procedures c

my body tremble. I wrapped my arms around myself, try

ace me. "Get on your knees," he com

my body ref

my hair and forcing me to the

floor. This was another part of his ritual of revenge. He

said, his voice flat. "Tomorrow is

choked sob. "Please, Liam

iled to do its job. Now, you will do the other job I have for

locked in the dark, the withholding of food, the chilling way he would desc

. "I'll do the treatment." My own voice sounded forei