Their conversation continued, each line slicing through my chest like a knife.
[Can we go deeper next time?]
[She’s a bit wary, hard to deal with.]
[Drug her. Once she’s out, anything goes.]
[Fine, but it'll cost more.]
My entire body froze. At that moment, I could hear nothing but the pounding of my own heart. Each beat slammed against my eardrums like war drums.
They were planning to drug her.
Pricing her and arranging “services” like she was livestock.
My fists clenched tightly, knuckles bone-white, breath growing short and uneven.
They spoke so casually, so disgustingly, like she was just a product, a throwaway object.
But she was my wife.
Her smile, the way she slept, the perfume she wore after showering, the gentle curve of her lips whenever she whispered “good night.” And now, they had reduced her to a transaction.
The messages didn’t stop.
The one who posted the photo sent another update. [There’s a party at the hotel tonight, drinks and karaoke. She’ll definitely show up.]
[Use her friend’s name to invite her. Say it’s to relax after the stress lately.]
[Don’t forget the drugs. No screw-ups.]
I could barely stand.
Tonight. A party. Drugs.
She had no idea.