Chapter 2

I looked down at the back of my hand, where an IV cannula was still taped down with a clear dressing.

I had given birth less than twenty-four hours ago.

They were screaming over the phone, Ethan shouting, Eleanor screeching, their voices boiling into a chaotic mess.

I held the phone away from my ear until the noise died down.

Finally, Ethan's voice came back, his breath ragged:

"Chloe, ignore my mom. She doesn't speak for me. Between me and her..."

"When did the affair start?"

I cut him off.

Dead silence.

"I asked you," I enunciated every word, "when did the affair start?"

Ethan's breathing grew heavy. After several agonizing seconds, he muttered:

"I didn't cheat. She really is family."

"Ethan."

I called him by his full name.

"I watched that video ten times. She had her arm wrapped around you, and your cheek was pressed against her head. You do that with a cousin?"

He had no answer.

"And your mother feeding her soup?"

"In the three years I've been married to you, Eleanor hasn't cooked me a single meal. Are you telling me a distant cousin means more to her than your wife?"

Ethan started scrambling again, blaming his mother, saying Eleanor forced him to go, claiming he was trapped and had no choice.

His voice sounded distant, like a stranger telling a story that had nothing to do with me.

"I don't care what your mom arranged,"

"When did you two get together?"

He didn't answer.

His silence was the loudest confession.

Eleanor's voice barged in again:

"They've been together for nearly two years! You gave him a bratty girl—what do you have on her?"

Ethan screamed at his mom, his voice echoing through the line.

I didn't listen any further.

"Then let's get a divorce."

I hung up.

A sharp sting flared across my lower abdomen.

I pressed a hand against the wound and exhaled slowly.

My baby stirred, whimpered softly, and drifted back to sleep.

She had been in this world for less than a day, unaware of its cruelty.

The phone buzzed. A SnapChat message from Ethan: I'm coming over right now. Wait for me. We need to talk.

I stared at the screen and didn't reply.

Talk.

When he crawled into another woman's bed, he didn't think about talking.

When he and his mother pampered another woman in postpartum care, he didn't care about talking.

He always believed a few sweet words could bend me to his will.

It used to work.

Back when we first dated, I melted every time he apologized.

When his parents opposed our relationship, I visited their house dozens of times, bringing gifts, smiling, trying so hard to prove my worth.

I thought the hardest battles were behind us.

On our wedding day, standing in my white gown greeting guests with blistered heels, my heart had been overflowing with joy.

I thought I had finally made it—that I was his wife, standing proudly by his side.

How naive. The real nightmare had only just begun.