I had been pathetic then—crying, begging, humiliating myself. Heavily pregnant, I traveled halfway across the country just to catch him in the act.
But when he saw me standing there, swollen and exhausted, there was no guilt in his eyes. Only contempt.
He sneered and flung Bonnie's lace lingerie right into my face.
"Alice, do you honestly think you're my wife?" he spat. "You're nothing but a dog the Delgado family bought. What right do you have to interfere in my business?"
The humiliation burned worse than the slap of fabric.
"In the Delgado house, if I tell you to kneel, you kneel," he roared. "If I tell you to wash Bonnie's feet, you fetch the water! And if you can't bear for me to leave—sit in the corner and watch!"
I was young then. Still held naive hope. We screamed at each other, and in the chaos, I missed a step.
I tumbled down the stairs. Eight months pregnant. Massive hemorrhaging.
Three times that night, the doctors issued critical condition notices. Yet through the pain and terror, Evan never showed up. Not once.
I signed the surgery consent form myself, hand trembling as I gambled my life to save the child inside me.