"I'm not the other woman! My baby isn't a bastard!" I screamed until my throat tore, but my voice drowned beneath the roar. "He's my husband!"
I was a cockroach dragged into the light, shaking from head to toe with humiliation.
I looked up at Dustin. Save me. My eyes begged.
His gaze landed on me for a brief moment, then slid away, weightless. Like he was watching a scene that had nothing to do with him.
Something inside me collapsed for good. Three years ago, my parents had warned me: the way Dustin looked at me held no real love—only novelty, only the thrill of the chase. I was nothing but a shiny new toy a spoiled heir had finally gotten his hands on.
But swept up in his relentless pursuit, I'd brushed their words aside like wind. To marry him, I'd cut ties with my family entirely.
Now I understood. I'd been pathetically, pitifully stupid.
Only after the abuse had nearly drowned me did Dustin give a slight jerk of his chin, signaling his bodyguards to shut down the livestreams. He'd timed it perfectly—let me suffer just enough to "learn my lesson," then tossed me a scrap of mercy like charity.
I steadied myself against the wall. Every inch of me trembled.