My husband has Bipolar Disorder. Every time he beats me, he guilt-trips himself into wiring me five grand. I never fight back. I take the money in silence and cover the bruises with heavy foundation. My best friend calls me pathetic. She tells me to divorce him. I just count the balance in my offshore account, a cold smirk touching my lips. "Don't rush," I whisper to myself. "This pig isn't fat enough for the slaughter yet." Until one day, he punched me in the stomach, and I lost the baby. Or so he thought. Chapter 1 Ping. "Transfer received: Five thousand dollars." The automated notification from my banking app echoed in the empty living room. It sounded sharp, almost mocking. I spit into the sink. The saliva was pink, tasting of iron and rust. Caleb sat on the opposite sofa, head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. His hair was a mess—he’d torn at it himself during the episode. "I’m sorry... Audrey, I’m so sorry... I couldn’t control it..." His voice cracked, trembling like a dead leaf in a storm. I didn’t speak. I just picked myself up from the floor. My knee had slammed against the marble coffee table. It was throbbing. Definitely going to bruise. I walked to the hallway mirror. My left cheek was swollen. Five distinct finger marks, turning a dark, angry purple. Caleb hadn’t held back this time. The "sick" version of him wanted me dead. I picked up the concealer stick and began layering it on. The liquid foundation felt cold against the burning skin. The temperature difference helped clear my head. Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Caleb wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. Hot tears dripped onto my collarbone, making me flinch. "Audrey, hit me back. Scream at me... I’m a monster..." "It’s okay." I looked at my reflection in the mirror, pulling the corners of my mouth into a perfect, forgiving, saint-like smile. "I know you’re sick, Caleb. I don’t blame you." Caleb wept harder, like a child who broke a vase. He pulled out his phone again. Ping. "Transfer received: Five thousand dollars." Plus the previous one, that’s ten grand. One slap, ten thousand dollars. Worth it. I make four thousand a month at my day job, dealing with a micromanager boss and entitled clients. Here, I take a few minutes of pain, and I make nearly three months' salary. The math always works out in my favor. Caleb comes from old money. His family owns half the real estate in the city. Money is just a number to him. To me, it’s my lifeline. Chapter 2 Caleb finally fell asleep. Violence is exhausting work, especially when you’re as hysterical as he is. I tucked him in, staring at his face. Even in sleep, he looked moody. When he wasn’t having an episode, Caleb was handsome. High cheekbones, straight nose, eyes that looked like they could drown in love. Who would guess there was a beast hiding under that skin? I closed the bedroom door and stepped out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette. I don’t usually smoke. Only when the pain keeps me awake. My phone screen lit up. It was Harper. “You still alive?” I sent her a screenshot of my bank balance. Silence for a moment. Then, a long voice memo. “Audrey, are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Ten grand bought your dignity? Domestic violence only escalates. One day he’s going to go too far, and you won’t be able to spend that money in the grave.” Harper was harsh, but she was the only one who knew. I blew a smoke ring into the night air. I typed back: “Almost there.” “Almost what?” “The pig is almost fat enough.” Harper sent a string of ellipses. She probably thought I was beyond saving. I wasn’t crazy. I was lucid. clearer than anyone. I touched my stomach. Flat. Soft. Empty. But I needed it to be full. Caleb’s episodes were getting worse. First, it was breaking things. Then shoving. Now, punches. The frequency went from monthly to weekly. I knew the breaking point was coming. If I stayed much longer, I might actually die. But I couldn’t leave yet. Current Caleb was guilty, but not guilty enough. His guilt account hadn’t reached the balance I required. I didn’t just want his pocket money. I wanted everything. Or his life. Chapter 3 The preparations were complete. I bought the blood bag online—special effects grade. Realistic texture, even smelled metallic. As for the "fetus." I acquired a medical specimen through some dark channels. Tiny, palm-sized, unformed tissue. Just looking at it made my skin crawl. I kept it in the back of the freezer, triple-wrapped in black opaque plastic. Every time I reached for the almond milk, I felt its cold energy staring at me. It was madness. I knew that. But to hunt a beast, the hunter must become a monster. Friday was Caleb’s birthday. Usually, he’d drink. Alcohol is forbidden for Bipolar Disorder, especially with his meds. But I bought him a bottle of Screaming Eagle anyway. It cost a chunk of my "bruise savings." Investments require capital. 7:00 PM. Caleb came home. He looked happy, holding an orange Hermès bag. "Happy Birthday, babe," he said. I paused. "It’s your birthday." Caleb smiled, kissing my forehead. "I know. But I wanted to get you a gift. If you’re happy, I’m happy." For a second, I faltered. Ignore the violence, and Caleb was the perfect husband. Rich, romantic, gentle. Too bad he was crazy. I opened the bag. A limited-edition Birkin. "Do you like it?" He looked at me with puppy dog eyes. "I love it." I nodded. "Let’s eat. I made your favorite roast." Candlelight flickered on the table. Caleb drank one glass. Two. Three. His eyes grew hazy, his cheeks flushed, his voice rising in volume. The "seasoning" I added to the wine was kicking in. It wasn’t just the alcohol. It was a neuro-stimulant designed to amplify aggression. Caleb had been taking Lithium prescribed by his doctor. I swapped them out. They were now identical-looking Vitamin B pills. The real heavy stuff was in the wine. "Audrey..." Caleb slammed his glass down. Red wine splattered on the white tablecloth like a gunshot wound. "Do you look down on me?" His eyes changed. That familiar, violent, murderous glaze returned. Showtime. Chapter 4 I feigned terror, shrinking back in my chair. "Honey, what’s wrong? Why would I look down on you?" "You do! You think I’m a lunatic! You think I’m useless without my trust fund!" Caleb stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over. He stalked around the table, closing in on me. I didn't retreat. instead, I instinctively covered my stomach. That motion triggered him exactly as planned. "What’s in your stomach? Huh? Is it some bastard child?" I hadn't predicted he’d go straight to infidelity, but paranoia works in my favor. "Caleb! Are you crazy? It’s your child! I’m three months pregnant!" I screamed, my voice piercing the air. "My child? Hah! I can’t have kids! I’m defective! I’m a psycho! Psychos don’t breed!" Caleb roared, animalistic and raw. He grabbed my hair and slammed me against the wall. Thud. It hurt. I took the fall, curling into a ball on the floor. "Don't... please... not the baby..." My pleading only acted as a catalyst. "Die! Everyone just die!" Caleb raised his foot and stomped hard on my abdomen. Once. Twice. I felt a rib crack. I waited for the hardest impact. Now. I crushed the blood bag hidden under my dress. Warm, viscous liquid flooded out, soaking my skirt and pooling on the white tile. Crimson spread rapidly. It was visually shocking. I let out a final, gut-wrenching scream and pushed the thawed specimen out from under my skirt. It lay in the puddle of red. A small, dark, unrecognizable lump of flesh. The room went silent. Caleb froze. He was panting, eyes locked on the floor. On the red pool. On the thing in the middle of it. His pupils contracted to pinpoints. He looked like he’d been struck by lightning. I "fainted." But before my eyes closed, I saw Caleb’s face crumble. Total horror. Not because he hit me. But because he realized—he had just become a killer.
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