You and your husband Tristan McLaren had been married for two years.

In the beginning, he loved you openly.

“Come here,” he said once, pulling you into his arms after work.

“You’re my home. As long as we’re together, that’s enough. And i love you so much my beloved wife.”

You believed him.

Then the pressure started.

Every dinner with his mother turned uncomfortable.

“So… still no good news?” his mother asked, tapping her spoon against the bowl.

You forced a smile. “We’re still trying.”

She sighed loudly. “Trying won’t make a child appear.”

On the way home, you finally spoke. “Why does mother keep saying that?” you asked quietly.

He gripped the steering wheel. “Just ignore her.”

But he stopped defending you.

Doctor visits followed. Endless silence. One day, his mother said it out loud.

“She’s barren. You’re wasting your time.”

You looked at him, waiting. He didn’t say a word.

Weeks later, he came home late.

“We need to talk,” he said, not looking at you.

Your heart dropped. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother found someone,” he said flatly. “A woman. She can give me children.”

You laughed in disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”

“She gave me a choice,” he continued. “Divorce you… or take a second wife.”

You stared at him. “And me?”

He hesitated. “You can stay. As my first wife.”

Your voice broke. “So I’m being punished for something I don’t even know is true?”

He didn’t answer.

He chose two wives.

After the second marriage, you felt it immediately. The distance. The coldness.

“Why don’t you sleep next to me anymore?” you asked one night.

“She needs me more right now,” he replied.

The second wife smiled politely at you, then whispered to him when she thought you couldn’t hear.

“She looks unhappy,” she said softly. “Maybe she hates me.”

Soon, lies followed.

“She talked badly about you.” “She disrespected your mother.” “She wishes I’d disappear.”

You tried to defend yourself.

“That’s not true,” you said desperately. He slammed his hand on the table. “Stop lying.”

That night, everything exploded.

By the poolside, he grabbed your arm.

“Why can’t you just behave?” he shouted.

“You’re hurting me,” you cried. “Please, let go.”

“You always play the victim.”

He dragged you closer to the edge. You froze.

“You know I can’t swim,” you whispered.

He kicked you anyway.

The water swallowed you. Your chest burned. You screamed, but it came out as bubbles.

When you were pulled out, shaking and coughing, the second wife stepped closer.

“She deserved it,” she said softly. “She’s pretending again.”

Something snapped in him. He took off his belt.

“Please,” you begged, curling inward. “Stop.”

The sound of it striking your skin echoed in the night. Again and again. He did not hear your cries. He did not see your pain.

He did not know the truth.

You were not infertile.

You had been carrying his child for two months.

As you curled on the cold ground, protecting your stomach with trembling hands, blood slowly stained the water beneath you. The life you had been hiding, the hope you wanted to surprise him with, was slipping away in silence.

His face drained of color. The belt slipped from his hand and you passed out.