6
396words
They said my suicide attempt traumatized him—he started ranting incoherently, so the family took him home.
Lucas was touching my belly—his hand cold, snakelike.
I slapped it away.
He looked hurt, eyes downcast like a sad puppy.
“Elara, we can have another baby.”
“I shouldn't have forced you. Forgive me, please.
I'll give you anything...”
So I slapped him.
A red mark bloomed on his cheek.
He didn't care, just held my wrist and leaned closer.
“Hit me again if it makes you feel better.”
I didn't—he was filthy.
“I don't want to donate to Isabella. Can you accept that?”
He froze, then frowned.
“You know she saved my life. I can't abandon her.”
He meant the car accident three years ago—Isabella took him to the hospital.
I laughed. “You love playing hero with other people's lives.
Why don't you donate your own marrow?”
He looked pained.
“Once I repay this debt, we'll move abroad.
I'll cut ties with Isabella.”
The system, silent all this time, suddenly chimed,
“Host! Lucas's 'Affection Level' is skyrocketing! One more push and the mission's done!”
Push this.
When I took that knife for him, you said 'Affection Level' was high—almost done.
When I donated to Isabella, you said the same.
Were you working for a scam company before?
“Isabella saved you—what about me? How will you repay mykindness of saving you life?”
I tore off his hypocritical mask.
“I know you love me—that's why I married you. Isn't that enough?”
His words stabbed me—so it was just a transaction.
I'd hoped he married me out of love, so I wouldn't lose so badly.
He saw my expression and begged, “One last time.
I'll treat you well—anything you want.”
I said coldly, “I want you dead. Or me dead.”
“Elara, don't be ridiculous. You know I won't let you die.”
Suddenly, I erupted, “Then why don't you die?! Lucas, you're pathetic!”
No matter how I insulted him, he stayed calm.
I tried everything to kill myself—Lucas removed anything sharp.
I swallowed objects—they pumped my stomach.
I jumped from windows—he doubled the guards.
He sat by my bed, eerily gentle, “Elara, I know you're just sick.”
He forced me into therapy, made me take mood stabilizers—treated me like I was crazy.
If I refused, he shoved pills down my throat.
He blamed my “mental illness” for everything.
