“Since you’re here, you might as well stay,” he mused. “How thoughtful of you. Serve me well tonight. Liz and I will sleep in the bedroom—” he paused, eyes glinting with amusement, saying, “and you can sleep on the sofa.”
A sickening wave of nausea rolled through me.
I struggled, trying to wrench myself free, but every movement sent sharp, stabbing pain through my abdomen.
Christopher didn’t care. He dragged me into the room with force, slamming the door shut behind us.
That night, just as I expected, the bedroom walls echoed with the sounds of pleasure.
I curled into the corner of the sofa, pressing my hands over my ears, trying to drown it out.
But fate seemed to enjoy tormenting me.
The TV flickered on, displaying today’s headlines—clips of Christopher and Lisa, smiling, laughing, their fingers intertwined like lovers in a fairytale.
The contrast was unbearable.
I reached for the remote, wanting to turn it off, but my hands trembled so violently I couldn’t even grip it.
The moans from the bedroom intertwined with the syrupy sweetness on the screen, twisting into a grotesque lullaby.