“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.