1 No one in Northwood City’s elite circles knew my husband—the man who supposedly adored me—was the same rugged star of illicit videos driving women wild online. John Hughes, my coldly disciplined husband, had "saved" his assistant Mila after she was forced to shoot 108 erotic films to pay a debt. He became her co-star. I recognized him by the birthmark above his hip. That night, I confronted him in tears. "She was drugged," he dismissed. "I was her first. No feelings—just physical." But he lied. He was addicted. Their videos grew wilder, even filming beneath our wedding portrait. Night after night, I lay awake, listening to their muffled moans above me. The final straw? When I showed him my positive pregnancy test, he exhaled cigarette smoke and said, "Get rid of it. Mila’s pregnant too." I turned away and dialed a number: "Bankrupt Hughes Corp. within a month." I hung up just as John descended the stairs, cradling a flushed and pliant Mila in his arms. He was wiping her down with a towel, completely oblivious to my presence. Mila saw me and immediately ducked her head, tugging on his sleeve. "John, your wife is still here." Only then did his eyes land on me, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "I've already booked the appointment for your procedure. Why haven't you left yet?" He didn't even try to soften the blow. "Don't worry, you can move back in after Mila has the baby." Mila's face bloomed a deeper red. "It's your fault for not being careful," she mumbled into his chest. John chuckled, a low, intimate sound that twisted a knife in my gut. He playfully tapped her nose. "You don't like it when I wear them. Besides, who uses protection for a video shoot? If it happens, it happens. It’s not like I can’t afford to raise another child." I stood there, numb, listening to their graphic chatter as silent tears traced paths down my cheeks. In five years of marriage, no matter how lost in the moment he was, John never forgot protection. The tiny life growing inside me was a drunken mistake. All his talk about not wanting me to suffer through childbirth was a lie. He just never wanted a child with me. Seeing my tears, John tossed a black AmEx card at me. It clattered onto the marble floor. "That's enough. There's enough on that card to last you three lifetimes." He followed it with a set of divorce papers. "Sign them. My child will not be born a bastard." "We can get remarried after the baby is older," he added, as if it were a generous concession. My vision blurred. I remembered the day he’d proposed, sliding the ring onto my finger, his eyes burning with sincerity as he swore to love only me, forever. That was only five years ago. "It's just a baby," Mila chimed in, a flash of triumph in her wide, innocent eyes. "It doesn't matter who gives birth to it." I tilted my head back, forcing the tears to retreat, and picked up the pen. When John saw me sign without a moment's hesitation, he let out a cold, humorless laugh. "See? You're no different from all those other gold-diggers." He then flashed the signed papers at Mila. "Happy now? Can I finally pay off your debts, little one?" "I just didn't want things to be unofficial," she cooed, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. She walked over to me, deliberately letting the blanket slip to reveal a fresh love bite on her collarbone. "Elara," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "if you ever need anything, anything at all, you just have to ask me or John." She was already playing the part of the new Mrs. Hughes. 2 A bitter smile touched my lips. I hoped she would enjoy her one-month reign as the lady of the house. "I won't need anything," I said, my voice flat. I turned to leave, but a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Mila. Before I could react, she crumpled to the floor. I stared, stunned, as she lay there. Before I could utter a single word, her eyes filled with tears as she looked pleadingly at John. "John, my love… maybe we shouldn't keep the baby," she sobbed. "I'll pay my own debts. I’ve already been ruined once, what’s one more man…" John lunged toward her, shoving me aside so hard I lost my balance. My head cracked against the corner of the console table, and a sticky warmth trickled down my temple. He didn't even glance at me. His entire world was the sobbing woman on the floor. He scooped her up, his gaze turning to me, now as cold and hard as granite. "Elara. Apologize." He didn't ask. He didn't investigate. He just condemned me. The tears I’d been holding back finally fell, hot and bitter. I didn't know if it was from the searing pain in my head or the crushing weight of it all. I remembered the night he’d been drugged by a business rival and had ended up in Mila's bed. He’d knelt at my door for hours afterward, begging me to forgive him. "Elara, I was drugged, I swear. I've already paid her to keep quiet. It will never, ever happen again," he'd pleaded, his voice cracking. "Don't leave me. Please." I had swallowed my pain, convincing myself it was a one-time accident. I’d pretended it never happened. But then he'd hired her as his personal assistant. And now this. The man who was once so above it all, so untouchable, was debasing himself in cheap videos for her. The first time was an accident. What about the second? The third? The hundredth? I tilted my chin up, defiant. "I didn't push her." Suddenly, Mila shrieked. She pointed between her legs. "John! Blood! There's so much blood!" The color drained from John's face. He swept her into his arms, his voice tight with a panic I had never heard before. "It's okay, baby, don't be scared. The doctor is on his way." In his haste, he snagged the wind chime hanging by the door, and it crashed to the floor, scattering into a forgotten corner. He had made it for me, by hand, after our first date. Our decade-long history, as fragile as the string that held the chime together, snapped under the weight of a one-year affair. A sharp cramp seized my abdomen, a pain that radiated through my whole body, but I barely registered it. I watched his retreating back, a sour burn in my throat. The fabric of my dress was turning crimson with my own blood, but he never looked back. Not once. I remembered a time I’d gotten a small paper cut, and he’d panicked, calling in a team of specialists just to look at my finger. Now, I was bleeding on the floor, and not a single servant dared to help me. Just as the pain threatened to pull me under, a hand reached out to me. I looked up, saw a familiar face, and a desperate flicker of hope ignited in my chest. "John…" I whispered. But it wasn't a hand of salvation. He hauled me to my feet and dragged me toward the sauna, his face a merciless mask. He shoved me inside and threw the lock. "You misbehaved," he said, his voice flat. "You need to be punished." A wave of heat washed over me. Through the glass, I saw Mila take the remote control, her face a picture of feigned kindness. "Oh, John, you shouldn't be so harsh with her. I'll just turn the temperature down a little." But the heat in the small room was already climbing, becoming unbearable. The temperature gauge began to flash a red warning. The scorching air amplified the pain throbbing through my body. I slammed my fists against the door. "John, let me out! I'm going to die in here!" 3 For a second, John’s expression flickered. He started toward the door, but Mila grabbed his arm. She blinked her big, innocent eyes, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "But I turned it down, John. Seventy-eight degrees is the perfect temperature for comfort. How could she possibly die?" John’s hand dropped. His face hardened into a mask of disgust. "Elara, are you so pathetic you'd lie just to slander Mila?" "You disgust me." He turned to the maids. "No one is to open that door without my permission." My heart hammered against my ribs, each breath a struggle. I used the last of my strength to scream, "John, if I die in here, my family will never let you get away with this!" He paused, then slowly turned, his face a canvas of pure contempt. "Your family? You mean the Wiltons?" He let out a short, cruel laugh. "Your father is dead. Your mother remarried the second she could. Do you still think you're the golden princess of Northwood City?" "If it wasn't for me," he sneered, "propping you up all these years, do you really think you'd still be living the same lavish life you were born into?" The moment he turned his back, holding Mila close, my legs gave out. I collapsed to the scorching floor. Tears of blood stung my eyes as I watched them walk away through the glass. "John Hughes," I whispered into the suffocating heat, "you shattered my heart. I will never, ever forgive you…" When I woke up, John was sitting by my bedside. My gaze was empty, hollow. I saw a flicker of something—was it pity?—in his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "The doctor said your body isn't suited for childbirth," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Telling you to get the procedure was for your own good." "The baby's gone now. It's for the best. Mila has a kind heart; she said she'll let you help raise our child." "And the sauna… the thermostat was broken. She didn't do it on purpose…" A mocking smile twisted my lips. Every word was a defense of Mila. He hadn't once asked me if I was in pain. If I was okay. My heart was a dead, cold thing in my chest, but my eyes still filled with tears. I stared at him, then slowly, deliberately, I raised my hands. They were swollen and blistered from the heat. John, who had still been defending Mila, stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened. "What are you doing?" I ignored the searing pain and began to force my wedding ring off my swollen finger. It pulled at the raw, ruined skin beneath. "Are you insane?" he yelled, grabbing my wrist. His touch sent a jolt of agony through me, and my eyes watered, but my voice was calm. "The ring. You can have it back." This ring. John had crafted it himself. Back then, he was just the unacknowledged bastard son of the Hughes family. I had defied my own family to marry him. He’d spent a month apprenticing with a master jeweler, barely sleeping, just so he could give me a proper wedding ring. For all these years, I had treasured it like a sacred artifact. I never took it off, not even to shower. A storm of complex emotions crossed John's face, but I was too tired to try and decipher them. His grip on my wrist tightened. I winced. "You're hurting me." He finally realized and let go. "Elara, I'm sorry. I—" Just then, a soft sob came from the adjoining room. Without another glance at me, John spun around and rushed next door. "Mila? What is it? Did you have a nightmare?" he cooed, his voice a gentle murmur. Mila's voice was thick with tears. "John, what am I going to do? They're threatening me again! I only wanted the money to save my mother, why are they doing this to me?"
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