But when I was seven months pregnant, Mason had me strapped to an operating table.
"When my mother died, the baby inside her was seven months along too. Your family owed her one last life. Now we're even."
I begged. I screamed. I wanted to die with my child.
Mason had them bind my hands and feet.
"Your life belongs to me. You don't get to die without my permission."
The memories crashed over me. My head dropped lower.
"I'm sorry."
Mason grabbed my collar and yanked me up.
"Chloe, isn't this what you wanted? To compete with Rebecca for my attention?" His lip curled. "Fine. I'll give you the chance."
Before I could react, he kissed me—hard, brutal, knowing full well I was allergic.
Then he shoved me away.
His eyes raked over me with cold contempt.
"Chloe Harding. You're nothing special after all."
"Someone like you doesn't deserve love. You exist to atone. That's all."
He stepped over me and walked away without looking back.
I clutched the medical report in my pocket.
And laughed.
Pancreatic cancer. Late stage.
The doctor said I had a week. Maybe less.
I watched his retreating figure and finally exhaled.
This penance is almost over.
I knelt through the night.