Her smirk stretched even wider. “The more miserable you are, the happier my birthday feels!”
My face went pale, fury rising in my chest. I couldn’t stop myself—I slapped her hard across the face.
The sharp crack rang through the ward.
Sherree’s smile froze. For a heartbeat, she stood still—then she lunged at me, her hands wrapping around my throat.
“Bitch! Who do you think you are to hit me? You think you’re still the rightful wife of my brother?” Her face twisted with rage, her eyes wild.
I struggled weakly, my body still frail from the miscarriage. Not even a cry could escape my lips.
The suffocating pressure closed in; darkness crept into my vision until suddenly, she released me and smiled.
He scoffed. “I almost killed you there. But no, no, that won’t do. If you die, then my brother and I will have no one left to take the bullets for us.”
Before I could react, several women at her side rushed forward. They forced me to the floor, covered my mouth, and bound my wrists and ankles with strips of gauze.
I thrashed in panic, but I was no match for them.
“Put her in there,” Sherree ordered with a wave of her hand.
The next thing I knew, I was shoved into the wardrobe of the VIP room.