He Let Me Go—Now He’ll Watch Me Belong to Another

The phone felt impossibly heavy in my hands, my grip tight enough to make the plastic creak. “Selene… your father has been looking for you. He’s hoping to speak with you soon,” the lawyer’s assistant said softly over the line.

I drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady the trembling in my chest. “Tell him…” I paused, forcing my tone to something resembling calm. “Tell him I’m leaving Rafael. If he truly wants to make up for the twenty years he ignored me, he can come get me in a week. Take me away from here.”

A quiet pause followed, and then the assistant cleared their throat. “You’re… divorcing Rafael? Are you sure, Ms. Mendoza?”

A humorless laugh slipped out of me. “Yes. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Prepare the papers. I want them signed the moment I walk in the door.”

The call ended before a reply came. I let the phone drop to the coarse blanket draped over my bruised legs. My fingers shook as I rolled up the sleeve of my hospital gown, exposing the jagged, puckered scar that ran down my forearm—a harsh reminder of betrayal seared too deep to ever forget.

Only three days had passed since the fire. Bianca—the friend I had trusted most, the one I thought was family—had started it. That same woman Rafael had been carrying on with behind my back.

She had stormed into my boutique that afternoon, her eyes wild and voice laced with venom. “Selene, you need to let him go,” she had shouted, no longer pretending to be polite. I told her to leave, but before I could usher her out, her hands were everywhere—upending solvent cans, snatching a candle, tossing it into the shelves.

The flames spread instantly, devouring everything. Fabric, wood, every piece of my labor and pride went up in seconds. And Bianca? She didn’t scream or scramble—she just stood there, watching with that smug grin I had once thought charming. When she finally stumbled outside, she clutched her wrist, crying out as if she had been the one in danger.

By the time the firefighters pulled me out, unconscious and burned, everything I had built lay in ruins. Rafael didn’t even glance at me. Instead, he stood by Bianca, his arm draped possessively over her trembling shoulders.

“She’s four months pregnant,” the doctor said cautiously. “We need to act quickly—both she and the baby could be in serious danger—”

“I don’t care,” Rafael interrupted sharply. “Save her. I don’t care about the other one.”

The “other one.” That was what I had become. Not a wife, not the mother of his child—just an inconvenience, a shadow of the life I should have had.

When I finally awoke, wrapped in bandages, the hospital room felt surreal, almost cruel in its brightness. I whispered for my baby, my voice cracking, barely audible.

The nurse’s face told me everything before words could. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mendoza. We did everything we could, but it was too late.”

The air left me in a rush. My child—gone.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging me back into the cruel reality of Rafael’s world. His name flashed on the cracked screen. I hesitated. Part of me wanted to ignore it, pretend I was still unconscious, let him hope I had died. But old instincts die hard. I answered.

“Where are you?” His voice was sharp, commanding, merciless. “Bianca wants caviar tonight. Get it.”

I swallowed. “I… I can’t. The doctor said I need rest—”

“Do you think I care?” he snapped, cutting me off. “Come home. Or did you forget whose hand is on your mother’s life support? One word, Selene, and she’s gone. Is that what you want?”

My throat tightened. I closed my eyes, holding back tears. “No… I’ll come.”

“Good girl,” he said, the cruel satisfaction lacing his tone before the line went dead.

I sat motionless, the phone slipping from my hands. Every muscle in my body begged me to stay put, hide beneath the sterile sheets, forget the world outside.

The door creaked, and a nurse stepped in, avoiding my eyes. “Mrs. Mendoza… your husband called. He said you need to leave now.”

“I can barely stand,” I whispered.

“He insisted,” she murmured, placing my bag on the bed. “He said you’d understand the consequences if you didn’t.”

I knew instantly. My mother. Her life hanging by the thread of his cruelty.

So I let the nurse help me up. Each step down the stark, white corridor felt heavier than the last. The pitying stares, the hushed whispers, I ignored them all.

Outside, the city lights blurred through the car window. Neon streaked across my skin, still healing, still raw. My hand went to my stomach, feeling the emptiness where life had been.

When we arrived at the Mendoza estate, I told myself, one more week. One more week, and freedom would be mine.

Then it happened.

A sudden splash. Cold, muddy water drenched my face and hair, soaking through the thin coat I’d thrown over my hospital gown. I gasped, slipping on the slick stones, shivering from the chill.

“Oops!” a voice called mockingly from above.

I looked up. There she was—Bianca—leaning over the balcony, lips curved into a mockery of sympathy. “Oh dear, Selene,” she said, with that theatrical gasp, fingers pressed to her mouth. “I didn’t even notice you there. How unfortunate.”