On our seventh wedding anniversary, my husband finally agreed to take a trip with me. But during the journey, Blake abandoned me on a foreign street because his young secretary, Amaya, decided to go on a hunger strike.

I looked at the travel itinerary I had carefully planned over the past year and begged him not to leave, to spend this anniversary with me. He shook off my hand.

"Anniversaries come around every year, but if Amaya doesn't eat, it could be a big deal!"

"You think everyone is as resilient as you, like a workhorse that won't miss a meal."

Although impatience tinged his voice, he still brushed a kiss on my forehead when he saw my tear-streaked face.

"Wait for me. I'll be back once I calm Amaya down."

But as I watched him board his private jet without a backward glance, I knew he wasn’t returning. I glanced at my hands, swollen from pregnancy, and with a bitter smile, tucked the prenatal check-up report back into my backpack. I couldn’t continue this oppressive marriage any longer.

***

Seeing the two of them so close in the hospital room, I suppressed the fury rising inside me. I pushed the door open and stood at the foot of the bed.

Seeing the look on my face, Blake instinctively moved to block my view of Amaya. Amaya noticed I had something to say and sent Blake to fetch some coffee. As I watched him leave, glancing back at her every few steps, a wave of bitterness swept over me. When I was sick, he wouldn't even get me a glass of water, yet he willingly did it for Amaya.

A soft laugh from the bed drew my attention. I stared intently at Amaya. "You should know Blake has a family."

Amaya met my gaze without flinching, ambition glimmering in eyes eerily similar to mine. "Of course I know. Everyone says I look like a younger version of you. But I'm younger and here to take your place."

Her words ignited a fire within me, and I grabbed her hair. "Who do you think you are? What right do you have to replace me?!"

Amaya yelped as I tugged at her hair, but remained unfazed. Just as I was about to slap her, she collapsed, shrieking and clutching her cheek as if I had already struck her.

Before I could even process what happened, a kettle of boiling water was hurled at me, scalding my entire arm. The burning pain made me scream, and I looked at Blake in disbelief.

He was momentarily flustered by my cries but was quickly drawn to Amaya's act of weakness. He cradled her, soothing the few splashes that had reddened her skin with cool breaths.

Turning to where I sat on the floor, he yelled, “You ungrateful woman! Visiting Amaya was already more than you deserved, who gave you the nerve to hit her?”

He continued to comfort Amaya, not sparing me a glance. "Apologize to Amaya!"

"Sorry..." The apology slipped from my mouth, leaving Blake momentarily stunned. He frowned at my miserable state, then turned away impatiently.

"Go get yourself bandaged, don't let it scar."

I got up awkwardly, my sandals causing me to limp as the scalding water had burned my feet. I hobbled out of the hospital room, leaving a trail of broken blisters and bloody footprints.

The physical pain was intense, but it didn't compare to the emotional anguish he inflicted on me. It wasn't until the nurse dressed my wounds that the stinging pain brought me back to reality.

Halfway through the bandaging, all the nurses were suddenly called away. I overheard them mention that someone from the VIP ward had been burned and needed immediate attention. I let out a bitter laugh, sure Blake had once again caused a fuss over Amaya.

With my wound half-treated, I had to finish dressing it myself using the method the nurse had shown me. Blood seeped through the fresh bandages, and I felt helpless.

Just as I returned home, feverish and on the brink of collapse, the phone rang. I answered it reluctantly.

"Why are you calling me?" My voice cracked with pain and tears.

On the other end, Blake's tone softened when he heard my distressed voice. "Honey, Amaya wants your special pulled pork and root vegetable stew. Make some and bring it over to apologize."

His words left me cold. That stew was my specialty, a dish I'd brought to his office every Wednesday without fail for seven years, regardless of the weather. And now, he wanted me to give my heartfelt gesture to Amaya?

My silence made Blake impatient, his voice tinged with anger. "Is making stew that hard? You hurt Amaya, and her wanting your stew is a step towards reconciliation. Don’t be ungrateful."

"If you don't deliver it within the hour, there's nothing left between us."

The call ended, leaving me in silence.

By the time I arrived at the hospital with the soup, dawn was breaking.

The hospital room was empty, and no one answered when I called. Left with no other choice, I dialed Blake's assistant, Ismael.

“Ma’am? The boss has gone to Berlin with Ms. Amaya. He said they needed a break.”

Feeling exhausted, I prepared to head home again, my mind growing increasingly foggy. Just before I lost consciousness, I instinctively protected my stomach—my baby.

The sensation of a cold liquid flowing into my veins chilled me to the bone. When I awoke, I found myself lying on a hospital bed, an IV drip attached to my arm.

With both hands immobilized, I stared blankly at the ceiling, boredom tugging at me. I painstakingly unlocked my phone, only to find dozens of missed calls from Blake. A smirk played on my lips as I prepared to call him back.

But then the door swung open. Blake entered, looking worn and weary from the trip. I smiled at him, but that smile froze as I caught sight of Amaya behind him.

Seeing that I was okay, Blake visibly relaxed. He couldn’t help but chide me, “Why didn’t you say anything about feeling unwell?”

It was Amaya who pushed us to cut the trip short to come back and check on you.

His words sank my heart. So, it was only because Amaya wanted to return that you came, Blake?

As tears slipped down my cheeks, Amaya flashed a triumphant grin. She approached with feigned concern, “Don't listen to him, Mrs. Morgan. He came back because he was worried about you.”

She then poked at my bandaged hand, curiosity lacing her voice. “Mrs. Morgan, aren't you being a bit too sensitive? I got burned too, but I didn't make such a fuss.”

The jab of pain caused my hand to jerk upwards instinctively. "Ah!" Amaya stumbled backward, grabbing onto my IV stand.

“I… I didn’t touch you!” I said, desperately trying to prove my innocence to Blake.

But he supported Amaya and, once she was steady, slapped me without hesitation. My ear rang, and my face swelled immediately.

Blake watched Amaya's tiny wounds with concern, tenderly comforting her. Then he turned to me, shouting, “You witch! Amaya kindly came to see you, and this is how you repay her?”

“She’s right; you’re just being dramatic. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just a cold; it’s not like you’re dying.”

With that, he left with Amaya, leaving me alone to stare at my hand, bleeding where the needle had torn my skin.

You call me dramatic, but wasn’t it you who spoiled me? You promised after we got married that I’d never face hardship, never suffer an injustice. But why, Blake, are you now the source of all this hurt and humiliation?

What am I supposed to do, Blake?

Looking at the mess around me, a nurse scolded me as she changed my bandages, chatting with another nurse.

“Mr. Morgan truly spoils his wife. He was so worried over a little cut on her face.”

“Yes, yes, last time when hot water splashed her, he called every nurse over.”

“But this Mrs. Morgan doesn’t look older than 20!”

“Well, with wealth comes excellent upkeep!”

I laughed bitterly at their words. “She’s not Mrs. Morgan; she’s just a mistress.”

They looked at me as if I had spoken some outrageous blasphemy. The younger one couldn’t hold back, quickly retorting, “I think you’re just past your prime! Sour grapes, much? You’re just jealous because they’re a perfect match!”

The other nurse apologized, covering her colleague’s mouth as she pulled her out of the room.

I lifted my hand, noting the obvious swelling from pregnancy, and tears flowed as I chuckled sadly.

This child couldn’t have come at a worse time. Baby, why did you have to arrive when your dad loves your mom the least?

The day I was discharged from the hospital, Blake Morgan pulled a move out of character—posting a photo collage on Instagram. It was a montage of wedding photos with Amaya George, captioned: "The lady insists I owe her a proper ceremony."

I scrutinized his handsome face in the pictures, noting how gracefully he'd aged at thirty-five, with time barely leaving a trace. The comments were filled with friends showering them with congratulations. I hit 'like' and commented: "Quite the pair. Make it official already."

Almost immediately, Blake called. Seeing the caller ID labeled as "husband," I let it go unanswered. Instead, I blocked and deleted the contact.

In under thirty minutes, Blake cornered me at the hospital entrance. Without a word, he pulled me into his car. Struggling to get free, I found myself trapped between the car door and his chest.

In the confines of the vehicle, he locked lips with me, dominating and stealing my breath. My legs turned to jelly as I instinctively leaned into his chest. Then the thought of him kissing Amaya George with those very lips hit me, and a wave of nausea rose.

Gathering my resolve, I bit down hard, and the metallic taste of blood filled the space between us. Blake flinched, pulling back, while I gasped for air. He smirked, amused at my reaction. "Jealous? Upset I took Amaya out without you?" he teased, gently pinching my cheek and making sweet promises.

But I just stared back, my eyes reddening. It was always like this—he'd show up with playful smiles right when I was about to break.

I slapped his hand away and met his gaze silently. "What is it this time?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion.

It seemed this was harder for him to explain; he hesitated before speaking. "Sweetheart, Amaya's place got flooded. I let her stay at our house for a few days," he said, holding my hand with a pleading look.

Hearing his words, I remained indifferent. Blake knew how much that house meant to me. After my parents passed away, it became my safe haven, the place where I found solace. He couldn’t bring himself to leave me, so it became our home.

And now he tells me he let another woman stay there, without my knowledge, while I was hospitalized.

"Let her stay," I said calmly.

My indifferent expression seemed to unnerve Blake, but he reassured himself that I was simply too tired to care. Yes, that must be it.

The drive home was silent. He tried to start a conversation several times, but I pretended to sleep, avoiding it all. Eventually, thinking I truly had fallen asleep, he shamelessly called Amaya. Their conversation was vulgar, the kind you'd rather not hear.

When we finally reached home, I crouched by the roadside, retching. Blake assumed I was car sick and offered a few comforting words before heading inside to find Amaya.

My heart felt submerged in cold despair.

Amaya George! It was always about her!

I crouched there in humiliation, waiting for the waves of nausea from my pregnancy to subside.

As I entered the garden, I noticed the drastic changes. The rose bushes I had planted were gone, replaced by a sleek, modern swimming pool. The small gazebo my parents had built for me had vanished.

My quaint, cozy garden had been transformed into a contemporary, luxurious space to fit Amaya George's taste.

Seeing the complete overhaul, I momentarily forgot to breathe, feeling the blood rush to my head.

Blake returned to the car to fetch something and caught me standing there, frozen. Casually, he said, "Amaya's allergic to pollen, so I had the flowers removed. We’ve seen them for over a decade anyway."

My hands trembled as I pointed at him, seething, "Why should my home cater to her! Get out! Take that woman and leave with you!"

Riled by my reaction, Blake turned back into the house, carrying Amaya out and pushing her into the car. As he passed me, he shot me a sideways glance and said, "Don't regret this. Even if you beg later, I won't come back!"

I collapsed to the ground, powerless.

Never again, I vowed to myself. Never again would I let him humiliate me like this.