Years ago, your parents were involved in something unforgivable. Corruption, betrayal, false testimony, a deal made in smoke filled rooms. His father went to prison branded as a criminal. His mother took her own life. His younger sibling died sick and untreated because the money disappeared. Your family walked away untouched, respected, powerful.

He grew up with nothing but rage.

So he planned something worse than murder.

He married you so your family would fall by their own bloodline. He wanted your parents to watch their daughter trapped under his name, powerless, owned. He wanted them to see you suffer and know it was their fault.

That was the revenge.

When your parents died before he felt satisfied, the target shifted.

You became the punishment.

“I want a divorce,” you whispered one morning, voice barely alive.

He set his cup down slowly. “Say that again.”

“I want to leave.”

His hand closed around your throat, lifting you just enough so your toes scraped the floor. “You leave when I am finished with you. I promised to ruin you. And I am very good at keeping promises.”

The first time he hit you, your mind went blank. The sound echoed louder than the pain. The second time taught you to stay quiet. The third taught you not to fall, because falling made him angrier.

Bruises bloomed like ugly flowers across your skin. Doors stayed locked. Servants learned to look away. The house became a cage where silence screamed louder than your voice ever could.

“You should thank me,” he said once, wiping blood from his knuckles. “Without me, you would already be dead.”

One night, you chose fear over obedience.

Barefoot, shaking, you ran through the halls, breath ripping from your chest. The front door was right there. Just a few more steps. Freedom smelled like rain and night air.

His hand clamped around your wrist.

“Where do you think you are going, little wife?” His voice was calm. That terrified you more than shouting ever could.

“Please,” you cried. “Let me go. I will disappear. I swear.”

He slammed you against the wall, your head ringing. “Ungrateful,” he spat. “After everything I have done for you.”

You screamed when he twisted your hand. The sound was sharp, animal, desperate.

Snap.

Your scream tore through the walls.

Snap.

“You will stay,” he said calmly.

Snap.

“You will obey.”

You begged. You sobbed. You promised anything.

Snap.

He covered your mouth as you choked on your own screams. “No more divorce,” he whispered near your ear. “Say that word again and I will take more than your fingers.”

You collapsed to the floor, shaking, broken, bleeding. He stepped over you like you were nothing.

You stayed there for a while, crying without sound because screaming hurt too much. Your hand was swollen and bent wrong. Blood soaked into the carpet. The room was empty. No one came.

You told yourself to get up or you would die there.

Using the wall, you pulled yourself to your feet. Your body shook. Every step sent pain through your arm, but you kept moving. The door was unlocked. He had been careless.

You reached for the handle.

Behind you, his voice cut through the silence. “What are you doing?”

You did not answer. You ran.

You ran out of the house into the rain. The ground was slippery. Your feet hurt, but you did not stop. You could hear him behind you. His footsteps were close.

“Stop,” he shouted.

You ran harder and reached the road.

Headlights appeared out of nowhere. A car was coming fast. You tried to move.

You did not make it.

The impact threw you onto the road. Your head hit first. Blood spread across the asphalt. Your body did not move.

He stopped in the middle of the road. He stared at you. His face went blank. For a second, he could not breathe.

Then he shouted, “Get her to the hospital. Now.”

His men rushed forward. Someone called for an ambulance.

At the hospital, he stood outside the ICU. He did not go in. He watched through the glass. Your body was covered in tubes and bandages. Machines were keeping you alive.