On the night of my husband Carlos' thirtieth birthday, he tried to kill me through a car accident. He didn’t kill me, but he managed to kill the two months old baby in my womb. Our baby.
"It wasn't an accident," I whispered, my throat raw. “I knew it! He wanted me to die for his mistress!”
No one believed in me. So, I filed a police report the moment I could sit up. I told them everything. How Carlos had been distant. How he had been on the phone with her—the mistress he thought I didn't know about—just minutes before we got in the car. How the car, a brand new luxury sedan, suddenly "lost control" on a dry road.
The detective just sighed, clicking his pen.
"Mrs. Rivera," he said. "Your husband is Carlos Rivera. The man just donated a wing to the children's hospital. It was his birthday. You think he tried to kill you and his unborn child on the way to his own party?"
"He didn't want the child," I snapped. "He wants her."
"You're grieving," the detective said, closing the file. "Trauma makes the mind do strange things. Go home to your husband."
And then, Carlos walked in. He looked impeccable. Not a scratch on him. He wore a fresh suit, his face twisted into a mask of perfect, devastated concern.
"Katerina," he breathed, rushing to my side. He dropped to his knees, taking my cold hands. "My God, look at you. I'm so sorry, officers. She's... she's not herself. The loss has broken her."
"I know what you did," I hissed, pulling my hands away as if his skin were acid. "You murderer."
Carlos looked up at the officers, tears shimmering in his eyes. "You see? She's hysterical. She needs rest. She needs to come home."
The police nodded sympathetically. To them, I was the crazy, ungrateful wife blaming a saint for a tragedy. To them, he was the victim.
He guided me out of the station, his grip on my arm firm. The moment the heavy doors of our estate closed behind us, the mask fell.
He didn't hit me. He didn't scream. He just dragged me up the stairs, his fingers digging into my bruised flesh, and shoved me into the master bedroom.
"You tried to ruin me," he said, his voice devoid of the warmth he’d shown the police. It was cold, flat, and terrifying. "I give you everything, and you go to the police?"
"You killed our baby," I spat, backing away until my legs hit the edge of the bed.
"It was an accident," he said, but his eyes were dead. "But you... you are a liability. You need to learn your place, Katerina."
He walked out. The door slammed. Then came the sound that chilled my blood.
Click. He locked me in.
For three days, I existed in that room. Trays of food were left at the door by silent maids who wouldn't look me in the eye. I didn't eat. I paced. I cried until my tear ducts were dry. I screamed until my voice was gone.
On the fourth day, the lock clicked open.
I walked out slowly, my legs trembling. The house was quiet. I made my way to the living room, needing to hear a human voice, needing to know the world was still turning.
The television was on. The news anchor’s voice drifted through the air.
“...breaking news. Local authorities have arrested twenty-four-year-old Mateo Rossi, brother-in-law of Carlos Rivera, for grand larceny and embezzlement...”
I froze.
Mateo. My brother.
I scrambled for the remote, turning up the volume. There was a grainy video of my younger brother, head bowed, being shoved into a police car.
“...allegedly stole over fifty thousand dollars from the Rivera Corporation warehouse where he was employed...”
"No," I gasped. "No, he wouldn't. He didn't do that."
"He did if I say he did."
I spun around. Carlos was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, sipping a glass of whiskey. He looked relaxed. Victorious.
"What did you do?" I whispered.
"Me?" Carlos took a slow sip. "I didn't do anything. Your brother is a thief, Katerina. It’s a shame. He’s looking at ten years. Maybe fifteen with the new sentencing laws."
"He didn't steal anything!" I screamed, rushing at him. I pounded my fists against his chest, but he didn't even flinch. "You set him up! You planted it!"
Carlos caught my wrists easily, holding them in one hand. He looked down at me with a sneer.
"You tried to send me to jail," he said softly. "You tried to destroy my reputation with your insane stories. Did you think there wouldn't be consequences?"
"He's innocent!" I sobbed. "Please, Carlos. He's all I have left. Our parents are gone. It's just us. Please, help him. Drop the charges."
"No," he said, shoving me back. I stumbled, catching myself on the sofa. "That is your punishment. You wanted to play games with the law? Now you see how the law works for people like me."
"You monster," I choked out. "You did it. You caused the crash. You killed my baby because you wanted to be with her. With your mistress."
"I did not," he said, adjusting his cufflinks, bored. "And even if I did... you don't have proof. You have nothing. You are nothing without me."
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
For years, I had loved him. I had ignored the late nights, the perfume on his shirts, the coldness in his bed. I had convinced myself it was just work, just stress. I had carried his child, hoping it would bring back the man I married.
But that man never existed.
I looked at the man who had murdered my child and framed my brother. The grief that had been drowning me suddenly solidified. It turned into something hard. Something sharp.
"I'm exhausted," I said. My voice wasn't screaming anymore. It was hollow.
Carlos looked at me, pausing with his glass halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"I'm exhausted of all these lies," I said, standing up straight. I wiped the tears from my face. They were the last tears he would ever see. "You don't love me anymore. You never did."
I met his gaze, and for the first time in days, I didn't look away.
"Divorce me," I said.
