"Serena Whitmore, didn't you want to be Mrs. Gilbert?" he would say, his voice devoid of warmth. "This is the price."
In three years of marriage, I miscarried four times.
Even when the doctor issued grave warnings about my health, Paul ignored them. A cruel smile played on his lips. "She stole Annie's position. She has to pay."
I cried. I begged for a divorce. But he only swatted my hand away and told me to stop dreaming. He even hunted down the birth control pills I secretly took and flushed them all away.
After the fourth miscarriage, I lay in bed, a hollow shell. That was when Anna sent a photo of her pregnancy test.
[Sister, I'm pregnant! Paul is already picking out names for the baby.]
[It's a pity some people will never see their own children born.]
Something inside me snapped. I dragged my broken body out of bed to confront Anna.
But the moment I got close, before I could even touch her, Anna threw herself to the ground.
Bright red blood pooled beneath her. Paul rushed onto the scene, shoving me aside with enough force to bruise. He scooped her up, his eyes wild with panic as he ran for the hospital.
His parting words were a blade to my heart.