Breaking Free from Betrayal

Morning arrived like a cruel joke. I barely made it to the bathroom before violent nausea overtook me, my body heaving as I clutched the cold porcelain. The pregnancy that should have brought joy had become my secret burden, a miracle Benedict no longer cared about. For weeks now, Salem had claimed our home as her domain while I'd been relegated to the periphery of my own life.

When the retching finally subsided, I slumped against the bathroom wall, my skin clammy and pale. This wasn't normal morning sickness; something felt wrong. Sharp pains stabbed through my abdomen, and I wrapped my arms protectively around my belly.

"Benedict," I called weakly, my voice echoing in the empty bathroom. "Benedict, I need help."

I heard his footsteps in the hallway and relief washed over me. Despite everything, some part of me still believed my husband would care.

The bathroom door swung open, but Benedict barely glanced at me huddled on the floor. His expression was tense, distracted.

"Salem's not feeling well," he announced, as if I weren't sitting there trembling. "She says she's experiencing some discomfort."

I stared up at him in disbelief. "I think I need to see a doctor," I whispered, one hand pressed against the cramping in my abdomen. "Something doesn't feel right."

Benedict's eyes finally focused on me, but there was no warmth in his gaze. "You're just experiencing normal morning sickness. Salem, on the other hand—"

"Has a scheduled checkup," I finished for him, bitterness coating each word. "And my baby doesn't matter at all?"

His jaw tightened. "Salem was pregnant first. Her child is the Knight heir."

The words cut deeper than any knife. I watched in stunned silence as he turned and walked away, leaving me alone on the cold bathroom floor. Minutes later, I heard him rushing Salem out the door, his voice soft with concern as he asked if she needed water, if she was comfortable, if there was anything he could do.

Questions he never asked me anymore.

---

Three days later, I was folding laundry in the upstairs hallway when Salem appeared at the top of the stairs. Benedict was at work, and I'd been trying to avoid being alone with her, but our paths inevitably crossed in the confines of the house.

"Still playing the dutiful wife?" Salem smirked, one hand resting on her protruding belly. "It's pathetic, really. He doesn't want you anymore."

I kept my eyes on the towels I was folding. "This is still my home."

"Not for long." Salem moved closer, her designer maternity dress rustling with each step. "Once my son is born, Benedict will divorce you. We've already discussed it."

My hands stilled. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Her smile was vicious. "Why do you think he makes you sleep on that pathetic little cot outside my room? So you can serve me better? No, Sophie. It's because he can't stand to touch you anymore."

I turned away, unwilling to let her see the tears stinging my eyes. "Excuse me," I murmured, trying to step past her with the laundry basket.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Salem's hand shot out, shoving me hard. The basket flew from my grasp as I tumbled backward down the stairs, a scream tearing from my throat. My body hit each step with sickening thuds until I landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom, a sharp pain radiating through my abdomen.

When I touched my thigh, my fingers came away wet with blood.

"My baby," I gasped, terror seizing me. "Please, no."

Salem descended the stairs calmly, looking down at me with cold satisfaction. "Oops," she said simply.

I don't know how long I lay there, sobbing and bleeding, before I heard Benedict's key in the lock. He rushed in, dropping his briefcase at the sight of me.

"What happened?" he demanded, kneeling beside me.

Before I could speak, Salem burst into tears. "She attacked me, Benedict! I was just walking past, and she tried to push me down the stairs. I defended myself, and she fell instead."

"That's not true!" I cried out, clutching my stomach. "She pushed me! The baby—our baby—"

Benedict's face hardened as he looked between us. With devastating clarity, I watched him make his choice.

"Salem, are you hurt?" he asked, rising to take her hands.

"Just shaken," she whimpered, leaning into his embrace.

He turned to me, his eyes cold. "I won't have you endangering Salem or her child. From now on, you're confined to your room unless I say otherwise."

As he helped me up and led me to the tiny room that had become my prison, I felt something break inside me—something beyond my heart, beyond my body's pain. It was the last thread of hope that the man I'd loved for seven years might still exist somewhere inside this stranger who wore his face.