I frowned. “What are you trying to do?”
Instinct told me she meant harm.
She came closer, pressing her fingers against one of my bruises—at first lightly, then suddenly harder.
She jabbed at the wound and sneered, “What pride do you have left?”
“You’re older, not as gentle as me, infertile—and you still have the face to refuse?”
“Be smart, accept it, and your life will be much easier.”
I clenched my teeth against the pain, still not understanding what game she was playing.
But share a husband with her?
Absolutely not.
I stared at her and asked, “You stole my husband, carried his child behind my back—don’t you feel any shame?”
“Shame? In today’s world, who even talks about shame anymore?”
Her fingers pressed against one of my bruises, sliding over the wound, sometimes light, sometimes pressing down hard.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, my lips trembled from the pain, yet I refused to make a sound.
Surprised, she asked, “Even now, you won’t beg me?”
“As long as you get down on your knees and beg, I’ll let you off. We can split the days—you get Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; I’ll take Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends.”
All I could think of was money.