1 For five years, my husband, the billionaire Joshua Archer, treated me like a goddess. He’d kneel to paint my toenails, wept as he offered me his own kidney after a car crash—he cherished me, his queen. But as his mistress, a woman I didn't recognize, had me bound like an animal and kicked me across the manicured lawn of a country club, he didn’t see me. Instead, he stood beside her, clapping his hands in delight. “Go on, darling, give it a good swing! Using a pregnant woman as a golf ball… imagine the follow-through on that! It must be exhilarating!” I screamed, a raw, ragged sound of agony, crying out for my husband, for my mother. But my mother, who was also there, simply wrinkled her nose in disgust and shoved a silk handkerchief from her purse into my mouth, silencing me. And my husband? He snatched the golf club from the other woman’s hands and swung it, hard, into my swollen belly. As I lay dying on the grass, the mistress ripped off her mask. “Sister,” she purred, “how do you like your birthday gift?” Cold sweat mingled with bright red blood, dripping onto the pristine green. I forced my eyes open, staring, just staring, at the man before me. An hour ago, he had washed the scent of another woman from his skin and knelt by our bed, whispering, “Thank you for your love, my queen,” his eyes glazed with sated desire. Now, he watched with cold amusement as his mistress tortured me. The nylon ropes had already chafed my wrists and ankles raw. The slender metal of the golf club struck my body again and again, each blow leaving a bloody welt, until I felt like my bones were being pulled from their sockets. Every cell in my body screamed in pain. “That poor woman must’ve crossed the wrong people,” a voice murmured from the clubhouse patio. “Mrs. Archer seems to be in a foul mood today. Looks like it’ll be two for the price of one…” “Anyone who gets into this club is someone important. Who’s the man who brought her here?” The whispers of the onlookers were laced with a cold detachment, a desire not to get involved. But none of them knew. The man who had just swung at me with the most vicious force, the man who was treating my body like a game… He was my husband. Today was my birthday. Joshua had cleared his entire schedule to be with me. Then a call came through—a major client had arrived, and he had to go. He’d spent half an hour kissing me, apologizing, and whispering sweet promises before he left. When I found his phone on the nightstand, I didn’t bother calling his assistant. I just grabbed it and drove to the club myself. The moment I stepped inside, a woman in a mask, her face vaguely familiar, intercepted me. Before I could process what was happening, her men seized me. I fought back, screaming that I was Mrs. Archer, Joshua Archer’s wife. Her eyes glinted with a cruel light as she ordered her men to bind me into a ball and roll me onto the putting green. Her voice was a low, mocking laugh. “What a coincidence. I’m Mrs. Archer, too. And since I’m standing right here, what does that make you? A liar?” The women behind her sneered. “Everyone knows Joshua Archer worships his wife. I swear, every woman in this city wants to be the next Mrs. Archer. This one clearly doesn’t have what it takes, but she’s certainly got the delusion down.” The masked woman used the toe of her designer shoe to stop my spinning body. Her smile was pure venom. “Let’s make a little wager. If Joshua recognizes you, I’ll let you go. If he doesn’t… you’re all mine.” I was certain. The moment he saw me, he would know. But that certainty evaporated into thin air when I saw him walk onto the green and press a tender kiss to her forehead. “Darling,” she said, her voice cloying sweet, “this woman’s belly is so big and round. It’s the perfect golf ball. Let me practice my swing.” “Of course, my love. Whatever Mrs. Archer wants, Mrs. Archer gets.” He tweaked her nose with a fondness I knew so well. It felt like a nightmare. He hadn’t recognized me. He hadn’t even truly looked at me. His world was completely filled by her. If she was Mrs. Archer, then what was I? What were our years of whispered secrets and shared dreams? What was the child growing inside me? My chest felt like it would explode. An icy dread, sharp as needles, crept up from the soles of my feet. I swallowed the blood pooling in my throat and, clinging to one last, desperate shred of hope, I forced out a single word. “Jo…shua!” He glanced over. For a heart-stopping second, I thought he saw me. But then he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Is this woman insane? Calling any man she sees ‘honey’? The desperation is pathetic.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “See this? The only woman in the world who gets to call me her husband is her. What the hell are you? You’re not worthy.” A vicious kick followed his words, landing squarely on my stomach. The world exploded in a starburst of white-hot pain, and a wave of cold sweat drenched my body. 2 I gasped for air, staring at him in utter disbelief. Just last night, he had rested his head on my pregnant belly, his laughter warm against my skin. “My love,” he’d whispered, “whether it’s a boy or a girl, you and our child are the center of my universe…” Just this morning, he’d kissed me until I was breathless, making me say his name a hundred times before he’d let me out of bed. But now, holding another woman’s hand, he was sneering that I wasn’t worthy. Of course. The treasure, the goddess, the center of his universe—it was all fake. The only things that were real were the lies. And the affair. The golf club in his hand came down on me again and again. My stomach slammed against the hard ground, and a gush of amniotic fluid and blood soaked the grass beneath me. I was no longer a person; I was just a human ball, rolling back and forth until I was completely covered in my own blood. Through a hazy, red-tinged fog, I saw my mother approaching, holding a coat, speaking softly to the other woman. A desperate need for rescue drowned out all reason. I choked out a cry. “Mom… help me! Mom!” The masked woman didn’t stop me. A strange, knowing smile played on her lips. My mother glanced at me, clutching her nose as if offended by the smell. “My eldest daughter, Seraphina, is resting comfortably at home,” she said, her voice cold. “And my youngest is right here beside me. You are neither. Stop your disgusting squawking, you filthy sow… it’s utterly deafening.” A bolt of lightning shot through my head, feeling as if my brain had just imploded. The next second, a scented handkerchief was brutally shoved into my mouth, choking off my cries, leaving me to make only muffled, guttural sounds. My heart seized. An immense, crushing wave of grief and pain threatened to shatter me completely. Just a few days ago, when I’d had a scare with some abdominal pain, she had sat by my bedside for twenty-four hours straight, sleepless. She’d been frantic, babbling incoherently as she prayed to every saint in the book, bargaining with God for my health and the baby’s. She’d even gone to a shrine and knelt until her forehead was bruised, all for us. The scab on her forehead hadn’t even fully healed. How could she… how could she not recognize me? I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. Tears streamed down my face. I choked back a sob, my throat raw, and screamed against the gag, a silent, desperate plea. Mom! Look at me! Please, just look closer! It’s me, Elara! Your daughter, the one you raised for over twenty years! But she didn’t give me a second glance. She was the one who had silenced my pleas for help. And now she was standing there, laughing and talking intimately with my executioner. The air was thick with the jeering laughter of the onlookers. A tearing, violent pain ripped through my lower abdomen, a heavy, pulling agony. My mind went blank, and through the haze, I thought I could hear the sound of a baby’s heart-wrenching cries from within me. My baby. I have to save my baby. With the last of my strength, I fixed my cloudy eyes on the man standing nearby. I forced his name through my bruised lips. “Jo… sh… ua!” He paused, turning to look at me. His voice was as soft as a lover’s whisper, but the words were the cruelest I had ever heard. “Get rid of this sow. The way she looks at me… it’s disgusting. She’s actually trying to seduce me.” Just before he left the house, he’d whispered in my ear, “My love, do you know why I love you so much? I can’t stand a single second without you. I miss you already.” He didn’t miss me. He wanted me dead. The last flicker of hope inside me trembled and died. Just as my world dissolved into gray ash, the woman leaned in close and ripped off her mask. “Sister,” she whispered, “how do you like your birthday gift?” I was dragged away like a sack of garbage and dumped outside the club gates. A kind passerby saw my state—a pregnant woman, beaten and bloody—and rushed me to the hospital. He pulled the handkerchief from my mouth. “Miss! Who did this to you? Where’s your family? Your husband?” My lips trembled. My mouth was filled with blood. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell him. The man who beat me was the husband who swore he loved me more than life itself. The people who orchestrated my demise were the family I had lived with for over twenty years. The emergency room doctors saw my near-dead state and rushed me straight into surgery, shouting, “Pregnant woman, massive hemorrhage, needs type B-negative blood, now!” “We’re out of B-negative in the blood bank!” a young nurse called back, her face pale. The door swung open. A familiar figure stepped inside. “I’ll give her blood,” he said. “I’m B-negative.” I trembled, forcing my eyes open. It was my father, in his white doctor’s coat. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my eyes burned with unshed tears. 3 My father had to recognize me! He was giving me his blood! Just last night, he had driven through a thunderstorm to bring me my birthday present. He’d told me he’d gone to a remote monastery, a place of pilgrimage, and had a silver locket blessed by a reclusive monk, a charm to keep me and the baby safe. His face had been slick with rain, his brow etched with exhaustion, but his eyes, full of love, had been brighter than I’d ever seen them. My lips quivered as I managed a single, broken word. “Dad…” His gaze, sharp and cold behind his glasses, met mine. “Who are you calling Dad? I have two daughters. My eldest is at home celebrating her birthday, and my youngest is at the golf club. Don’t just call any man you see ‘Dad.’ It’s pathetic.” My mouth hung open. I was a clown in a tragedy of my own making. His words were a lightning strike that vaporized my entire world, turning my flesh and blood to ash. He… he didn’t recognize me either? Was it all a lie? All the years of affection, the whispered endearments of “my sweet girl,” “my darling Elara”… was all of it fake? My heart twisted in agony. I wanted to scream. Dad, save me. Save my baby. It’s your grandchild. But his next sentence plunged me straight into the ninth circle of hell. “My son-in-law just called. Seraphina’s old heart palpitations are acting up again…” He looked down at me, his face a clinical mask.
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