My Skin on Her Back

I once thought that when Julian Whitaker took a bullet for me, it was proof of his undying love.

The bullet struck him in the head. He survived, but with the mind of a child.

I aborted our six-month-old baby, just so I could test a new drug on myself for him.

When the new drug failed, I knelt day and night in church, praying to God for his recovery.

Everyone in the Lombardi family said our matching tattoos were a testament to true love.

But that intense love was shattered by a woman with a swollen belly.

His mistress, Sophia Vance, found me. Her gaze was a blatant provocation.

“You don't actually believe Julian became a simpleton to save you, do you? He was just tired of you. He wanted a quiet life with me.”

“I heard you damaged your body testing that drug and can't have children anymore. Don't worry, I'll have them for you.”

“Gianna, you're not worthy of the title Mrs. Lombardi.”

She was beautiful, with an ignorant sort of courage.

I didn't waste my breath. I had her tied up, carved the words into her skin, and filmed her screams to send to Julian.

He burst in with bloodshot eyes, just as I finished carving the last word.

I smiled, the cold tip of the blade pressed against Sophia's neck.

“Sign the papers. Unless you want two corpses on your hands.”

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1

Julian Whitaker burst in, followed by his Soldati.

I didn't recognize them, but the murderous aura was all too familiar.

It seemed Julian was truly furious tonight.

“Gianna, let her go! She's innocent!”

He finally dropped the act.

I looked up at that face—so familiar yet so strange—and laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks.

“So, I'm the one who deserved all this?”

He pretended to be a fool for three years, and I sacrificed three years for him.

For over a thousand days and nights, I hadn't known a single moment of peace.

To cure him, I tested hundreds of drugs.

When I was six months pregnant, I learned of a new drug.

Its effects were unstable, with a potential side effect of leaving the user in a vegetative state.

That night, with trembling hands, I scheduled an abortion.

I could have another child, but I couldn't live without him.

After the procedure, I held the perfectly formed body of our child and cried until I passed out.

When I woke up, I walked into the laboratory.

Testing that drug nearly killed me.

The doctor said I could never be a mother again.

I never regretted it. But reality slapped me hard across the face.

The husband I had sacrificed everything for wasn't sick at all.

He faked it, just so he could live a blissful life with another woman.

Under the lights, an irrepressible rage simmered in Julian's eyes.

“I can explain, but what right do you have to hurt her?”

Seeing him confront me so accusingly, my own anger flared.

I raised my hand and threw the divorce papers in his face.

“What gives me the right? Everything I've sacrificed for you!”

I rose with a cold smile, lifted my long skirt, and revealed the hideous scars on my knees.

They were the marks left from kneeling day and night in the church.

When you're desperate, you place your hope in the divine.

My knees were worn raw, a mess of flesh and blood.

The skin would rot, scab over, and then tear open again.

On legs like these, I dragged myself through countless days and nights of prayer.

Even now, the memory of the pain makes me tremble.

But it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart right now.

Seeing my tears, Julian froze completely.

The anger in his eyes dissipated, leaving only a thick, inconsolable sorrow.

His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees before me.

His eyes were filled with guilt, his voice trembling.

But his words were needles of ice, piercing my heart.

“Gianna, please let her go. I'm begging you!”

“She's carrying my child. I have to protect her!”