The Barren Wife's Revenge: It Was You

On our seventh anniversary, my husband Dante tossed divorce papers onto the desk.

He looked at me with cold indifference, his hand resting on the swollen belly of his nineteen-year-old mistress.

"You are barren, Seraphina," he spat. "She carries my legacy. You carry nothing but ghosts."

When I tried to argue, he shoved me.

I fell hard, my back slamming against the concrete floor of the studio.

Pain tore through my abdomen, and warm blood began to pool beneath my red dress.

The tragedy wasn't just the violence; it was the truth he didn't know.