“That’s rich,” I shot back. “Coming from the man draining his wife while his mistress rests like a queen.”
He crossed the distance in two strides.
His hand snapped around my jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.
“Watch your mouth,” he warned.
“Or what?” I whispered, fury burning through fear. “You’ll humiliate me again? Strip whatever dignity I have left?”
His lips curved into a cruel, amused smile.
“You’re breathing,” he said softly. “Be grateful.”
“You already have her,” I snapped. “You got the heir you wanted. So why am I still chained to this chair?”
The irony nearly crushed me.
She lay in another room—guarded, pampered, surrounded by doctors and silk sheets—while I bled for her survival. For her child.
While my own baby stayed hidden, clinging to me in silence.
I said nothing.
I couldn’t.
He would weaponize it. He would turn my child into leverage, the same way he turned love into ownership.
So I swallowed the truth and stared at the ceiling, letting the sterile lights blur as I refused to cry.