The Wife Who Never Loved

In the days that followed, I continued to play the part of the perfect wife and mother. I cooked, I cleaned, I smiled. But Hunter' s gaze grew colder with each passing day. It was unnerving, like he was calculating something.

One evening, after putting Kaylee to bed, he called me into his study. The room was dim, the air heavy with the scent of cigars and old books. He stood by the window, several cigarette butts already piled in the ashtray beside him. He looked out at the city lights, his back to me.

When he turned, his expression was unexpectedly soft, almost gentle.

"Krystal," he said, his voice low. "I think it' s time I gave you your freedom."

My breath hitched. My hands, resting on the back of a leather armchair, trembled involuntarily. Did I hear him right?

He smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. He walked towards me, his movements unhurried, and gently brushed a strand of hair from my face.

"Aubrie is pregnant," he confirmed, his touch strangely tender. "And the child is mine."

My heart was a raging storm, but I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the polished floorboards. I couldn' t show him the surge of unexpected hope that threatened to overwhelm me. I couldn' t let a single flicker of joy betray me.

I remembered the early days of our marriage, my futile attempts to escape. I had run away countless times, only to be dragged back by him. Each time, his eyes were bloodshot, terrifying.

"Still planning on running, Krystal?" he would purr, his voice laced with a chilling amusement.

His hand would always find its way to my neck, resting there lightly, a silent threat. "Stay by my side, and maybe, just maybe, I' ll let you go one day."

Those memories flashed through my mind, a dark reel of fear and submission. I couldn' t trust his words. Not completely.

But the thought of leaving him, the sheer possibility of it, was like a fragile sprout pushing through barren earth. It was a tiny, tentative hope.

"Can you… can you really let me go?" I dared to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

His smile remained, but the warmth drained from his eyes. They became cold, hard. I didn' t know what I had said to anger him.

He slammed his hand down on the desk, the sound echoing through the quiet room. My body flinched. He seized my arm, dragging me roughly towards the desk. His voice, a low growl, was a demonic whisper in my ear.

"I can' t let you go, Krystal. Not ever." His grip tightened, a physical manifestation of his suffocating hold on me.