My blood ran cold. I gripped my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, almost crushing the screen. So that's how it was. My son's tragedy wasn't a spur-of-the-moment act; it was premeditated. Just because of Vanessa's provocation, he was able to brutally murder his own two-year-old son, ruining his life.
I bit my lower lip hard until I tasted the strong metallic flavor of blood, barely managing to suppress the surging hatred in my heart. This man was filthy, disgusting. The love and marriage I once cherished were nothing but a meticulously planned deception. I didn't want it anymore, and I couldn't bear it any longer.
I threw my phone back down, the screen slightly scratched, like my shattered heart. My hands trembled as I opened my contacts, found my senior's number overseas, and pressed the dial button. The moment the call connected, I suppressed the trembling in my voice and said firmly, "Senior, please do me a favor. Help me contact a hospital with good confidentiality and top-notch rehabilitation treatment. I need to take my son with me."