One night I woke up at 2 a.m. passing blood, drenched in cold sweat from the pain.
Julian panicked. He scooped me up and ran to the hospital like a man possessed.
In the corridor, he crouched in front of me and gripped my hands, his eyes full of guilt and anguish.
"Gertie, I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm useless—I let you suffer like this."
"I swear I'll work harder. I'll buy you a place with a big balcony."
"He always said every single day we were together was an anniversary. He'd surprise me out of nowhere."
Grace's voice pulled me back. She held up her phone, beaming.
"This is my account—just for documenting our life together."
Her slender, manicured fingers scrolled down. Every post dripped with luxury. Jewelry, fresh flowers, designer goods, and a postnatal recovery center that cost tens of thousands a month.
And the pinned post at the very top—two crimson marriage certificates.
The date.
It was the day I tried to kill myself for him.
I stood frozen. A high-pitched ringing flooded my ears. My whole body shook, and my nails dug so hard into my palms I could feel the skin split.
At that exact moment, thunder cracked across the sky, its flash sweeping over the massive villa.