The acrid smell of disinfectant saturated the air.

Donna opened her eyes. Her entire back burned as if seared by a hot iron; each breath tugged at the raw wounds.

Then, voices from outside the door delivered another blow to her groggy consciousness.

"How could you lock Donna in there? You’re her husband. How could you tell *me* to leave first… I never should have gone to that place with you…"

Nancy’s voice was a soft, weeping murmur, answered by Roger’s—saturated with tenderness.

"Don’t blame yourself. I was too frantic. I knocked over the memorial lamp by accident. Blame me, alright? But even if I had a thousand—ten thousand—chances to do it over, I’d still save you first."

Their intimate murmuring threatened to split her eardrums.

Gritting her teeth, she fumbled for the bag she always kept close. Inside lay the tiny clothes she had sewn herself, stitch by painstaking stitch. Silent tears carved wet paths down her cheeks.

Her Terry… had never once worn the clothes she made for him.

Just… gone.

And the test report that had just arrived on her phone shattered five years of love into meaningless dust.

Her body was perfectly healthy. Yet the report Roger had personally handed her—every line, every word—had condemned her as sickly and weak.

In a sudden frenzy, Donna found that report and ripped it to shreds.

It had never crossed her mind that the reports were fake. She had never dreamed her ‘frail’ constitution was Roger’s own handiwork!

She watched the flight confirmation on her screen, tears soaking into the pillow.

No need for a thousand or ten thousand second chances.

*Roger, this time, I'm the one walking away.*

*I'm giving you back to Nancy.*

She had barely set her phone down when the door burst open. Roger hurried in, haggard and dusted with soot as though he’d come straight from the fire.

Seeing Donna lying safely in the hospital bed, his strength seemed to desert him. He slumped to his knees beside her.

"Donna… thank God. Thank God you’re all right. If anything had happened to you, I wouldn’t want to go on living…"

Donna looked at the dark shadows beneath Roger’s eyes and found she couldn’t utter a word.

On any ordinary day, she would have clung to him and wept.

But the burns on her back. Her own dead child.

They screamed a blood-soaked truth: the family she had cherished for five years was a fabrication!

The man she had loved with her life hated her most of all.

"Roger," Donna’s voice was thick, each word trembling, "why did the fire have to be in Terry’s room? I was so close… I almost had him in my arms."

Roger tilted his head up and gently kissed the tears from her cheek.

"My fault. All my fault. I didn’t negotiate clearly with the kidnappers back then. I was the one who insisted on keeping that lamp burning for him… I made it so even in death, Terry found no peace."

Every syllable was a dodge, an evasion.

A sudden, deep exhaustion washed over Donna.

She had already decided to leave him. So why did her heart ache like this?

Her hand flew to her chest of its own volition, pounding against it as if she could tear the wretched thing out and be rid of it.

But Roger misunderstood. Thinking it was self-recrimination, he caught her fist in his hand, his own voice pained. "Don’t hit yourself. Hit me. It kills me to see you hurt. Terry… he’s gone. Let’s just have another, okay?"

As he spoke, his fingers went to the collar of her hospital gown, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

"No. I won’t have a child with you."

*I won’t let you kill another of my children…*

Her gaze fell to the sprawling, vivid marks on Roger’s neck, just below the blood-red prayer bead at his throat. The hickies were a deeper, more lurid red than the drop of her own blood she had once sealed inside it.

Nausea roiled in her stomach. Pushing against his chest, weariness etched itself into her eyes and brow.

Roger nodded, his gaze lingering, tender. "Alright. Then I’ll stay right here with you. Call if you need water."

Under the weight of his heated stare, Donna could only close her eyes.

She dreamed of last night again. Of the fire, consuming everything she had.

"Roger!"

She woke with a gasp, jolting upright. The room was utterly dark. The man who had promised to stay was nowhere to be seen.

Outside the door, nurses chattered.

"That girl upstairs is so lucky! Just a twisted ankle and her boyfriend’s beside himself…"

"Honestly! He booked the whole VIP floor *and* hasn’t left her side. Dotes on her more than that ‘wife-worshipping’ CEO, Roger!"

A traitorous tear escaped. Donna scrubbed it away viciously.

*Don’t you dare cry, Donna!*

After Dad died, no one was ever going to love you again!

Her phone chimed.

A message from Nancy.

A photo. In it, Roger—the man whose hands signed billion-dollar contracts—was down on one knee, tenderly rubbing Nancy’s ankle, his eyes filled with rapt devotion.

**「I’m taking your man AND your child!」**

**「The one in your belly will end up just like the first!」**

“Your visa will arrive by mail in three days, Ms. Donna. Please wait patiently.”

After being discharged from the hospital—with the visa process finally complete—Donna felt an unspoken pull, one that led her straight into a baby store.

She bought a stack of tiny, adorable outfits. Her hand drifted to the gentle curve of her stomach.

“Don’t be afraid, little one. This time, I’ll protect you. Even if it costs me my life.”

Just three more days. Three days, and she would leave this house forever.

Donna had barely pushed the front door open when a bucket of icy water crashed over her head. Christine stood watching, wiping her hands clean with a derisive snort.

“To wash the filth off you.”

It was the same welcome she’d received every day since Terry’s death. Shivering, Donna shook off the water and clutched the bag of clothes to her chest.

Nancy’s eyes widened in theatrical horror. She snatched the bag from Donna’s arms, tears springing up instantly.

“White clothes? You bought these on purpose? Are you trying to lay a death curse on my baby?”

That was all it took. Christine flew into a rage, seizing Donna’s jaw and forcing her mouth open to pour in a foul, stagnant liquid—her gaze so venomous it seemed to wish Donna dead on the spot.

“After Nancy here, kind soul that she is, went to the trouble of hiring a cleansing ritualist for this house! And you repay her with curses? Drink! Purge the corruption from your soul!”

“What a curse on this family, to have married a creature like you!”

The putrid, ammonia-sharp stench made Donna gag and thrash. In the struggle, her hand pressed hard against Nancy’s abdomen, shoving the woman to the floor.

Donna collapsed, retching onto the tiles. A heavy *thwack* landed across her still-tender surgical wound.

“You plague! Beat this plague to death! First you killed my son, now you’re cursing my husband! Do you want my grandchild dead too?”

Christine swung a wooden club, thick as a child’s arm, bringing it down again and again on Donna’s back. Four strikes, five—enough to stain her clothes dark with blood.

“I didn’t… those were for…” *For Terry…*

She never finished. The ritualist stepped forward, slowly tipping a bowl of steaming liquid over her fresh welts, murmuring an incantation.

“Begone, foul spirits. Begone.”

Where it touched her skin, blisters rose instantly with a searing, bone-deep burn. A scream—raw and ragged—tore from Donna’s throat.

This was no ritual potion. This was diluted sulfuric acid from Roger’s lab.

Her face was a deathly mask of pain, yet she didn’t flinch, her hands locked protectively over her belly.

The ordeal stretched on. It would later be tallied as ninety-nine blows and five bowls of that corrosive brew.

Only when Donna’s back was a raw, bleeding mess did Roger finally rush through the door. He caught his mother’s arm mid-swing, flung his suit jacket over Donna, and roared:

“Enough! Stop this!”

Nancy picked herself up from the floor, nursing a vivid red handprint on her cheek. Her tears fell in a pretty, practiced stream.

“Roger, don’t look at me like that! This *is* for her own good! Her womb’s been barren, and now she’s cursing my child…”

Roger’s face darkened at her words, but he gathered Donna’s barely-breathing form against him, his voice turning placating.

“Nancy meant well. She just chose the wrong method. As a lesson, we’ll delay that luxury bag she wanted. She can have it next month.”

A violent tremor ran through Donna. Pain and sobs choked her voice, and the sheer, breathtaking absurdity of it all washed over her.

“She forces piss down my throat, beats me bloody, throws acid on my wounds… and her punishment is a delayed shopping spree?”

Roger’s expression froze into ice.

"You were never this aggressive before, Donna. Now you're pushing people, hitting them. Seems I've been spoiling you too much."

He yanked her to her feet, his tone severe. "You've been pregnant before. You know what a pregnant woman should eat. This is your punishment—make a nutritious meal for Nancy."

A searing pain shot through Donna, as if her skin were being stripped from her back. She stared at him in disbelief. "Roger, I’m your wife!"

Tears streamed down her face.

Perhaps it was the raw anguish in her voice, or the sheer wretchedness of her appearance, but a flicker of hesitation crossed Roger’s eyes. Then his gaze landed on the red handprint on Nancy’s cheek, and the words died in his throat.

"Donna, you know how I am. It’s not personal—it’s about what you did. Whoever makes a mistake faces the consequences."

Donna trembled violently, barely able to stay upright.

*It’s not personal? And what about Terry? When you strangled Terry with your own hands, why didn’t you think about your own flesh and blood!*

Two servants seized Donna, whose strength had completely drained, and hauled her toward the kitchen. They forced a hot pan into her hands.

The moment she gripped it, the handle snapped. Boiling oil splashed directly toward her abdomen.

She had no time to dodge. She could only shield her belly with her hands, taking the scalding oil on their backs.

The oil seared her skin, raising angry, blood-filled blisters. Donna’s scream of pain went ignored.

Warm laughter and cheerful chatter seeped through the kitchen door crack. She could even see Roger feeding Nancy spoonfuls of truffle soup.

Nancy sat at the center, smiling sweetly at her, mouthing a silent word:

*"Serves you right."*

She was getting revenge for that slap.

Sweat blurred Donna’s vision. *I can’t collapse. I have to hold on until the day I leave. Only then can I protect the child in my womb.*

The meal was served. Nancy took one bite and immediately spat it out, her voice trembling with accusation. "I know Sister-in-law doesn't like me, but how could you harm the baby? I'm allergic to eggs."

But the kitchen had contained only eggs.

Clutching her stomach, tears welling in her eyes, Nancy whimpered, "Roger, my stomach hurts so much..."

Roger shot to his feet, scooped Nancy into his arms, and rushed for the door. "Get the hospital director to prepare a room—now!"

Donna opened her mouth to explain, but Christine grabbed her blistered hand and flung her to the floor.

"Donna! Was the lesson earlier not enough? What on earth are you trying to do!"

As the first slap landed, the priest’s chant for the dead began to echo in Donna’s ears.

Her cheeks swelled from the blows; the hard beads of Christine’s bracelet cut into her skin with each slap. The metallic taste of blood flooded her senses.

Clutching her abdomen, staking her last shred of hope, Donna choked out, "Roger…"

Roger’s steps faltered. He didn’t turn back. His voice was ice.

"Donna, this time, you’ve gone too far."

The final note of the death chant faded. The last slap fell with brutal force.