Then, Daniel and the judge sent me to prison.
Even behind bars, their influence followed me. The prison guards had clearly been bribed. During the day, I was locked in a solitary confinement cell—a suffocating, windowless box where the air was heavy with the stench of rot and metal.
The guards didn’t speak much. They let the electric batons do the talking. Again and again, the sharp shocks tore through my body until I lost track of time, pain, and reason.
At night, things were even worse. When I returned to the main cell block, fresh cruelty awaited. The other women, emboldened by the guards’ indifference, tormented me with gleeful violence. They pulled my hair, dumped buckets of filthy water over me, burned my skin with cigarette butts, and mocked me as I cried.
I was bruised from head to toe, my body barely recognizable, and my spirit almost broken. A week passed like a year. Then came the bleeding.
From my lower body, a steady flow of blood began. At first, I thought it was from another injury. But when the pain hit me, deep and wrenching, I realized with horror: I was miscarrying. Alone. In prison.
I thought I was going to die.
It was only then that I was granted bail—ironically, not out of mercy but because of the miscarriage. My release had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with saving face.
Daniel came to pick me up. He stood by the hospital ward door, a strange look on his face—a mix of hesitation, pity, and something that vaguely resembled heartache.
“You didn’t even know you were pregnant?” he said in a low voice, placing a thermos of soup on the table. “Well, it’s just as well. I didn’t want a second child anyway. If it’s gone, then it’s gone.”
His tone was so casual, like he was talking about a broken umbrella. My gaze dropped to his neck—bright red strawberry marks, fresh and brazen. I turned my head, refusing the soup, my body trembling with disgust.
“Losing the baby works out for you, doesn’t it?” I muttered weakly. “If I’d carried it to term, it would’ve interfered with your chances of making Vanessa’s ‘favorite person’ list.”
The baby must have felt it—how cold it was, how heartless its father was. Maybe that’s why it chose not to be born.
If someone must be blamed, blame me—its mother. Too useless to protect it.
Dear child, if there’s a next life, please be reborn to a better mother. One who can keep you safe.
Daniel’s face hardened as he saw the loathing in my eyes. Whatever flicker of guilt had been in him vanished.
“I’m Vanessa’s lawyer,” he said sharply. “Of course I took her money. That’s my job!”
“Can’t you be reasonable for once, Emily? If you had just admitted slander and apologized to Vanessa, none of this would have happened. But you had to keep clinging to your so-called justice.”
He shouted like I was the criminal, as if I’d burned the world down with my stubbornness.
“The miscarriage? That’s on you. Don’t act like the world owes you anything!”
“And your grandpa?” he sneered. “He’s old. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. Was all this really worth it—for a dying man?”
His words struck like knives.
“Daniel,” I choked through sobs, “are you even human anymore? That ‘dying man’ raised me! I don’t care if I die—I will fight until I get justice!”
I hated him. I hated his cruelty. I hated how easily he betrayed love and replaced it with profit.
But more than anything, I hated my own helplessness. My weakness. My inability to stop any of this.
Daniel lost his temper. With a roar, he smashed the bowl of soup on the floor, ceramic shards scattering.
“You’ll never win this case!” he shouted. “You better wake up and face the reality!”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I curled up on the hospital bed, tears soaking the pillow as despair engulfed me.
I stared at the ceiling. Gray, cracked, unfeeling.
How did it come to this?
We had once been the light in each other’s lives.
Back then, Daniel had been a young lawyer fighting for the underprivileged. He offended a local gang when he took on a case for free. I was a rookie reporter chasing truth, monitoring the gang’s movements night after night.
We met by chance, two flames in the dark. I remember asking him once, “Aren’t you afraid they’ll come after you?”
He’d smiled bitterly. “I’m scared. But someone has to do it.”
His grandfather lost a leg in a hit-and-run meant for him. After that, Daniel often came to visit him. He’d help mow the lawn, go fishing with Grandpa, talk for hours like family.
Slowly, naturally, we fell in love.
In those early years, we were the envy of everyone—devoted, simple, happy.
But as his career soared, everything changed. He stopped helping the poor and started chasing wealthy clients. His suits became tailored, his shoes branded, his morals blurry.
Still, I clung to the belief that deep down, he was the same man who once stood for justice.
I didn’t see it. I didn’t see how long he’d been with Vanessa. How often they’d been together.
Now it’s clear. I was so, so wrong.
Tears spilled down my cheeks again. The pain tore through me—not just physical but emotional, unbearable.
I passed out.
When I woke up, my eyes were too heavy to open, but I could hear… movement.
Rhythmic creaking. Bedsprings. Moaning.
That sickening music.
I was still lying there—and they were having sex in my hospital room.
Right beside me.
“Vanessa,” Daniel panted, “can we not do this here? What if she wakes up?”
Vanessa’s voice was soft and seductive. “Then it depends—who’s more important to you? Who will you protect? You said you’d listen to me. Do you want to back out now? Still holding on to feelings for her?”
“You know I lost my parents young. I don’t want my daughter growing up the same way. But having a free, loyal nanny at home works out just fine. Don’t worry—when she’s older, I’ll make sure she leaves.”
A… free nanny?
Vanessa laughed. “Your daughter has a servant. But who’s going to serve me?”
Daniel groaned, “Then tonight, let me serve the young lady well.”
Their moans filled the room, echoing in my ears like knives scraping bones.
I thought I had no more tears left. But my heart felt like it was being torn open again.
I couldn’t even roll over. My limbs wouldn’t move. All I could do was lie there—eyes closed, heart shattered, crying silently into my pillow.
Eventually, they left. A nurse came in later to change my bandages.
She sneered, talking to another nurse just outside the door, “This one’s lucky. Miss Blake got her a VIP ward just to keep an eye on her.”
“If I were her, I’d get divorced and make room. Just look at them—handsome man, rich woman. A perfect pair.”
Their laughter rang in my ears like mockery.
I reached for my phone with trembling hands. The screen came to life—and with it, a nightmare.
My face was everywhere.
Photoshopped. Distorted. Memes with vulgar captions.
They’d exposed everything—my name, my address, my ten-year-old daughter.
People I didn’t know flooded my messages with threats, slurs, and curses. My grandfather, who’d done nothing but raise me with love, was being vilified online.
We had become the country’s scapegoats. Hunted. Mocked. Destroyed.
And the only question that kept ringing in my head was:
Why?
We are the victims.
So why are we the ones being burned alive?
