On the day I lost my baby, my husband told me to wash his childhood sweetheart’s underwear.

I was on my period, fragile and hurting, but Bronson Bradwell didn’t care. Instead, he turned to her for solace without hesitation.

Over the phone, I heard her sickly, sweet voice laced with mock concern. “Bronson, maybe you should spend some time with Estelle. She just had a miscarriage today.”

His reply was like a dagger, cold and unfeeling. “It’s just an abortion. Who knows whose bastard it was anyway.”

My blood ran cold. That was the man I had vowed to spend my life with.

I mustered every ounce of strength left in me and asked for a divorce. His sneer was as cruel as his words. He slapped me hard across the face, his voice venomous. “Do you think someone like you is worthy of asking for a divorce?”

I stumbled to my feet, tears stinging my eyes as I watched in helpless agony. He didn’t stop there. He trashed what was left of my world, digging up my mother’s ashes and scattering them into the sea without a shred of remorse.

He spoke with ice in his tone, each word a whip lashing at my resolve. “Take your mother and disappear as far away as you can.”

The next time we crossed paths was at the airport. I was leaving the country with my new husband, ready to embark on our honeymoon.

When his eyes landed on me, his expression twisted into something venomous, a concoction of disdain and misplaced triumph. His voice dripped with bitterness as he sneered, “Didn’t I tell you to stop clinging to me? Don’t you understand simple words?”

Before I could respond, my husband stepped forward, his presence commanding and composed. He wrapped an arm around me with an air of quiet authority, his voice calm yet pointed.

“Apologies. The person she’s here for is me.”

—-

Estelle Maddox had just returned home after her abortion surgery, exhaustion clinging to her like a shadow. As she pushed open the door, her foot snagged on something, a lace bra lying carelessly on the floor, one that clearly wasn’t hers.

Bronson Bradwell emerged from the bedroom, shirtless, his toned torso marred by fresh, telltale scratches.

“You’re back late,” he said casually, as though nothing was amiss.

“Overtime at the firm,” Estelle replied, her gaze shifting away from him. Her eyes landed on their wedding photo hanging on the wall, a bittersweet reminder. In it, her expression was composed, almost detached, while Bronson smiled brightly, his happiness seeming genuine.

He strode over to her, his movements unhurried yet deliberate. Gripping her chin, he pulled her into a kiss, his free hand already working at the zipper of her dress.

Estelle stiffened and placed her hands against his chest, stopping him. “My period came early.”

Estelle’s periods had always been punctual, but Bronson refused to believe her claim. His disbelief turned into aggression as he tore her dress, ignoring her feeble resistance.

The proof was undeniable: blood stained her underwear.

Displeased but unwilling to push further, Bronson dragged her to the sofa, forcing her trembling hands to satisfy him. Each movement left Estelle weaker, her fragile state worsening with every second. During the struggle, her knee collided with the sharp edge of the coffee table, the bruise blooming dark and instant.

Bronson, as always, remained indifferent to her pain.

When he was done, Estelle sat motionless, her lipstick smeared, the metallic tang of blood lingering on her tongue. Bronson lounged beside her, casually typing a message on his phone.

“I’ve bought your company. Starting tomorrow, you’ll come home on time and cook for me. Have a son within a year. The old man’s waiting for a grandson,” he said with an air of entitlement.

Lowering her gaze, Estelle murmured softly, “Got it.”

Bronson reached out, his fingers gripping her face, not harshly, but enough to leave an angry red mark that spoke volumes.

“Soleil’s also on her period. Go wash her underwear,” he added coldly, his words cutting like a blade.

Estelle’s gaze bore into Bronson, cold and unyielding. For a fleeting moment, he faltered as though bracing himself for her to retaliate.

But without a word, she bent down, picked up the discarded underwear, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The flicker of hatred in her eyes seemed nothing more than a trick of the light.

Bronson glared at the closed bathroom door, his frustration boiling over. With a roar, he grabbed a glass from the table and hurled it against the wall, shards scattering across the floor.

Estelle, once celebrated as the nation’s brightest legal mind and a fierce advocate for women’s rights, now stood in a bathroom, scrubbing the underwear of her husband’s mistress. Pride and dignity, once her armor, were cast aside like yesterday’s trash.

Bronson convinced himself he had spoiled her too much. Fueled by rage, he stormed into the bathroom, kicked the door open, and hoisted Estelle into his arms.

“Bronson, I’m on my period. You can’t...” Her protest was cut short as he flung her onto the bed.

The impact stole her breath and dulled her senses, but the sharp, searing pain that followed brought her back to consciousness.

"So what if you’re on your period? Last year, Kade and the guys even threw a game night for this, and not a single soul ended up in the hospital."

Bronson’s grip on Estelle tightened, his fingers digging into her arm with ruthless force.

Estelle gasped, her voice trembling as pain seeped into her words. Through gritted teeth, she hissed, "This is marital rape!"

Bronson let out a cold, mocking chuckle, his tone dripping with disdain. "And then what? What are you going to do about it, Lawyer Maddox?"

His smirk grew darker. "Go ahead, sue me. But when you do, I’ll bring your mother’s ashes into the courtroom. From then on, if you want to pay your respects to her, you’ll have to visit me in prison first."

The fire in Estelle’s eyes dimmed, her fury fading into helplessness. She collapsed onto the bed, her body limp and lifeless, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

"Bronson, why don’t you just die?" she whispered, her voice hollow, the words a fragile echo of her shattered spirit.

Bronson, the master of cruelty, stroked her cheek with unsettling tenderness as though her words had been mere whispers in the wind. "If I die, Estelle, you’ll come with me. Don’t think you can escape. Even if you run to the ends of the earth, I’ll find you. And when I do, I’ll break your legs and keep you locked up at home. I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life, whether you like it or not."

By the time Estelle woke up, Bronson was already gone, likely at an urgent meeting. These fleeting moments of solitude were her only reprieve.

The torment of the previous night had left her feverish. She fumbled for fever-reducing pills, swallowing them with cold water that burned her throat like fire. It was swollen, painfully so.

This routine had become mundane, almost second nature. Bronson seemed to revel in her silent endurance.

The first time Estelle had endured such humiliation was at a dinner party. Her mother was still alive then, and Bronson forced her to skip work to attend.

While he could drag her to the gathering, he couldn’t make her feign politeness. Her disdain had been etched on her face, growing darker with every passing minute.

Normally, the icy tension between them was enough to keep others at a distance. But by the time she arrived, most of the guests were already drunk. One of Bronson’s friends, unsteady on his feet with a wine glass swaying in his hand, stumbled toward her.

“Sister-in-law, Bronson’s told us so much about you. Finally, we meet! Come, let me toast to you!”

Estelle ignored him, her focus entirely on her meal, radiating an air of aloof detachment. She was like a mountain flower, untouchable and out of place, her indifference a stinging slap to Bronson’s pride.

The man was caught off guard and fidgeted awkwardly, unsure of how to recover.

On Bronson’s other side, Kade, ever the peacemaker, noticed the tension and stepped in quickly.

“Have you had so much to drink that you’ve forgotten yourself? Do you even realize how much Bronson protects her? He’s finally brought her out, and you have the nerve to push her to drink?”

Kade gave the man a subtle nudge with his foot, trying to steer him away. But before he could take more than a step, Bronson’s cold voice cut through the air.

"Estelle, didn’t you hear my friend speaking to you?"

A chill settled over the room. Kade’s stomach tightened, sweat forming at his temples. Bronson was never one to tolerate defiance, and Estelle’s stony demeanor had clearly worn thin on his patience.

“Are you deaf?” Bronson growled, snatching the chopsticks from her hand.

Though his voice was low, it carried a weight that silenced the rowdy room in an instant.

Estelle drew in a steadying breath, rose from her seat with her wine glass in hand, and approached the trembling man. Without hesitation, she clinked her glass against his and drained its contents in a single swallow.

Then, as if delivering a verdict, she hurled the empty glass at Bronson’s feet. Her voice, calm but cutting, sliced through the thick silence.

“Is there anything else? If not, I’ll take my leave.”

Bronson’s lips curled into a smirk, his gaze sharp and unyielding. He didn’t bother to rise. Instead, he reached out, grabbing her arm with an iron grip and yanking her down to the floor at his feet.

The movement was so sudden that Estelle couldn’t brace herself. She landed on her knees amidst the shattered glass.

Kade cringed at the sight, an involuntary hiss escaping his lips, but Estelle didn’t so much as wince.

“Bronson, she’s a woman. Don’t…”

"Wait outside."

Kade’s attempt to excuse the growing noise died on his lips as Bronson’s commanding tone cut through the air.

The room emptied in moments, leaving nothing but silence in its wake.

“Is it really so unbearable to have a meal with me?” Bronson asked, his voice low and edged with frustration as he pinned Estelle against the glass, his grip unyielding.

“If you’re looking for a drinking partner, you’ve come to the wrong place,” Estelle shot back, her chin lifted defiantly, her composure unshaken despite the intensity of his gaze.

“I don’t need a drinking partner,” Bronson murmured, his tone laced with a dark undercurrent. “But I’m upset, and I need you to make me feel better.”

Before she could reply, he pulled her down onto his lap, his hold unrelenting.

Estelle struggled, her movements fierce, but Bronson released her without warning, leaning back with a look of amusement as she scrambled to her feet, poised to flee.

Calmly, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Director Parish,” he said, his voice taking on a chilling calmness, “the patient I asked you to look after, stop their medication for now.”

The words hung in the air, their weight undeniable.

Bronson ended the call, his smirk deepening as he leaned back leisurely, raising an eyebrow at Estelle, who froze in place.

Estelle’s face drained of color, her eyes widening with disbelief as they locked onto him.

“You never spent a single cent on my mother’s medication. What right do you have to stop it?” her voice trembled with restrained fury.

“Because my last name is Bradwell,” he replied with a smirk that carried an edge of menace. “And if I so choose, not a single doctor in this hospital or this city would dare treat your mother. Evergreen Valley would become a dead end for her care. Of course, you could take her elsewhere, but from what I hear, moving her in her condition is nearly impossible.”

His words cut deeper than any blade, but he wasn’t finished. “Estelle, I had hoped for something mutual. But if you insist on resisting, I can just take what I want.”

Her glare bore into him like a dagger, but each step she took toward him felt like walking through quicksand.

She closed her eyes, her knees hitting the floor with a weight that crushed her spirit.

When it was over, Estelle coughed violently, the metallic taste of blood stinging her throat. The fire in her chest burned, but her heart had gone cold.

She couldn’t resist him, couldn’t escape, couldn’t even die. She was no more than a hollow vessel, shackled to Bronson’s whims.

Estelle left for work despite her fever.

She had been caught in the web of a harassment case for weeks. The defendant was powerful and untouchable, a man whose wealth and influence allowed him to wipe away every trace of his wrongdoings. The case couldn’t be filed, leaving Estelle to navigate through the murky waters of litigation. The first trial had been a crushing defeat, and everyone had lost hope. But Estelle, undeterred, had taken on the case for free.

The victim, a young girl still in school and abandoned by her parents, had come to see Estelle as a beacon of hope, a savior in her dark world. Today, Estelle could have taken a break, but her determination to finish the case quickly had overridden her fatigue. The girl had exams looming, and Estelle didn’t want to drag the ordeal out any longer than necessary.

After her mother’s death, the only thing that kept Estelle alive was the pursuit of justice for her clients. It was her escape from the suffocating shadow Bronson cast over her life.

She had thought about ending it all, but Bronson had dug up her mother’s grave, the act cruel and heartless. He’d taken her mother’s ashes as a twisted reminder of his control.

“Bronson! Are you even human?!” Estelle had screamed, her voice breaking under the weight of her grief. But he had held her tight, his grip unyielding, preventing her from collapsing into herself.

“Marry me, or face the consequences,” Bronson had demanded, his words cold and final.

At first, Estelle had refused, her resolve fierce. She had gathered enough evidence to bring him down, to sue him for everything he had done.

The case had gone smoother than she had expected, with Bronson reluctantly returning the ashes after the matter was settled. But when Estelle checked, she realized that only half of her mother’s remains had been returned.

For over twenty years, Estelle had lived her life believing in black and white, trusting that the law would punish the guilty. That was until she met Bronson.

Powerless against him, Estelle had no choice but to submit and marry him.

Just as she sat down at her desk, lost in thought, the receptionist’s voice interrupted her. Someone was looking for her.

Thinking it was a client, Estelle stepped out only to find Soleil Ruslan waiting for her. Soleil, the woman who had left her lingerie at Bronson’s house just the day before, Bronson’s childhood friend, the one who clearly had no intention of staying in the background.

Soleil’s gaze was sharp, her eyes sweeping over Estelle with an air of distaste as if she were studying something unworthy of her attention. Without saying a word, Soleil settled into the guest area, the silence between them heavy and thick with unspoken words.