He Stole My Womb, Lost All

The scent of blood still lingered in the bedroom, a faint, metallic tang beneath the cloying sweetness of the air freshener someone had sprayed. It was a ghost of the housekeeper' s punishment, a chilling reminder of Kayson' s capacity for cruelty.

He was acting as if nothing had happened. He sat on the edge of the bed, a bowl of my favorite porridge in his hands, patiently feeding me spoonful by spoonful.

"Just one more bite, my love," he cooed, his voice the epitome of gentle concern.

I swallowed mechanically, the food tasteless in my mouth. My mind was a frozen tundra. How many times had I mistaken this monstrous control for passionate love? How many times had I seen his brutality as a shield to protect me, rather than the cage it truly was? This whole scene-the tender feeding, the concerned gaze-it was a farce. A grotesque parody of the love I thought we shared.

"So, what's on the agenda today?" he asked, wiping a non-existent smudge from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. "Besides our wedding rehearsal, of course."

I manufactured a smile, a brittle thing that felt like it might crack my face. "Actually," I said, my voice sweet as poison, "I have a surprise for you. For us."

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A special ringtone, a soft, melodic chime I'd never heard before. Camille's ringtone.

Before he could react, I leaned over, snatched the phone, and declined the call.

I held it up, my smile widening. "A new tone? Who's the special caller?"

A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he masked it with a casual shrug. "Just a business associate. Nothing important." He took the phone from my hand, his touch lingering on my fingers. "They can wait. Today is all about you."

On the way to the auction house where I' d planned my "surprise," his phone rang again. And again. The melodic chime grew more frequent, more insistent, a frantic, digital plea for his attention. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The mask was slipping.

We pulled up to the curb of the city's most exclusive private auction house.

"Here," I said, plucking the phone from the center console and handing it back to him. "You should probably answer that. It sounds urgent."

He grabbed it, his relief so palpable it was pathetic. He was so focused on the phone, so desperate to appease his real mistress, that he didn't even notice the arctic chill in my eyes. He didn't see the executioner standing right next to him.

As we walked toward the grand entrance, he was already dialing. But he never finished.

The ornate doors of the auction hall swung open. And there, projected onto a massive screen that dominated the entire back wall, was a video.

A silent, grainy video of two bodies, writhing in the throes of passion.

The man's face was artfully obscured by shadows and camera angles.

The woman's was not. It was Camille Perry.

A low, familiar moan, amplified by the hall's state-of-the-art sound system, echoed through the space.

Kayson froze, his face draining of all color. The phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the polished floor.

I walked past him, taking my designated seat in the front row. I glanced back at his stunned, ashen face.

"What a shame," I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy. "It seems your ex-wife hasn't learned her lesson about staying out of the spotlight. Someone must have sent this to me... anonymously, of course. A concerned citizen, I suppose."