In a daze, I heard the doctor say, “Sir, this time, the bleeding was more severe than any of the previous miscarriages. I’m afraid her reproductive system may be permanently damaged. She likely won’t be able to conceive again.”
I felt the blood in my veins freeze. My hands went ice-cold.
Adriana said nothing. Her eyes were red as she looked at me with guilt.
“Allen, please don’t worry. Even if we can’t have children, I still love you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”
This woman—who had grown up as a pampered heiress—had just suffered another miscarriage, and yet she held my hands against her chest, gently trying to warm them with her own body. Even in sleep, she refused to let go.
Late that night, she murmured in her sleep, “Khalil, don’t be afraid. I’ll make sure you get the happiness you deserve.”
The tears I had been holding back finally burst forth.
At our wedding, she had also promised to give me happiness.
But now I see—it was just a lie to stop me from interfering with Khalil.
And I realized, everything about our marriage had been one enormous, cruel joke.
Inhaling sharply, I sent a message to my childhood friend overseas.