“How much blood do you need to spill before the bastard in your belly dies?”
Aveline’s black eyes locked on mine—flat, unreadable.
A crisp clang broke the tension as the knife slipped from her hand. Then she smiled and turned—not at me, but at the subordinate with a gun aimed my way.
“How dare you point a weapon at my husband? Put it down.”
The man froze, then obeyed.
Aveline’s gaze lingered on the wound I had carved into her arm, almost to the bone. She admired it like a jewel before lifting her eyes to me.
“Have you vented enough?” Her voice was calm, almost tender. “Gideon, we’re husband and wife. I’ll forgive you this time. But the next time you lose control—make sure you know who you’re aiming at.”
I pressed out my cigarette on her shoulder.
“Take your dog and your bastard and get out.”
She helped Laurent to his feet, her eyes still fixed on my neck. The blade had left a red line across it. For a moment, I thought she might let go—rob me of the pleasure of carving her deeper.
She reached for me. I sidestepped.
“Careful. Filthy diseases spread through blood. Don’t contaminate me.”
She ignored the insult. Supporting Laurent, she kicked over our anniversary cake, grinding the figurines into paste. Without looking back, she walked out.
At the door, she paused only long enough to tell the housekeeper:
“Apply medicine to the master’s neck. Don’t let him touch water, or it could infect.”
The door shut. Then came Laurent’s panicked cry:
“Aveline—you’re bleeding! Our child!”
I looked at the iron rod lying abandoned on the floor. She hadn’t done it herself. That was the end of us.
That night, the headlines told of Aveline chartering helicopters and calling in specialists from across the country—to save another man. The footage showed her eyes shining with devotion. Even after miscarrying, she refused to sleep, guarding Laurent as if he were made of glass.
The housekeeper scrubbed at the blood and cream on the carpet, her lips tight with anger.
“Mr. Gideon, this is too much. You’ve given her everything. You even stayed up all night to make this cake, and she ruined it for him…”
The red wine, frosting, and blood smeared together into a foul slurry.
“It’s fine,” I said evenly. “Trash belongs in the trash.”
The doorbell rang. A courier handed me a package: a bouquet of lace panties, stained. His expression twisted with disgust as he showed me his phone. The sender demanded a video confirmation.
Onscreen, Laurent grinned.
“Do you like my gift? Lonely on your anniversary, huh? Don’t say I’m heartless—I even shared Aveline’s touch with you. Don’t be shy. I’ve got plenty more.”
He flashed photos of their intimacy, savoring every second.
“Thanks to you, Aveline feels even guiltier about me. She swore our child’s death won’t go unavenged. You’ll pay. She calls me her angel, Gideon. You? You’re just a mad dog bound for hell.”
I laughed softly.
“Angel? Pity. Because an angel who only knows how to spread his legs isn’t worthy to be the head of the our family.”
Aveline promised she would make me pay. She wasn’t bluffing.
A few days later, I put on my favorite suit, styled my hair, and headed to the airport—ready to greet the woman I still called beloved.
