Hotel Room…
The door to the ward had barely closed when my phone buzzed. A message from Christopher.
I hesitated before opening it.
A video.
The screen lit up with the sight of him—naked, tangled with another woman whose face was blurred, their bodies entwined in an obscene display.
Disgusting, wet sounds filled the silence of my hospital room.
My hands trembled. My stomach churned. I fumbled to turn off the phone, but before I could, it rang.
Christopher.
His voice on the other end was laced with mockery, slow and lazy, filled with disdain.
“Did you watch it?” He chuckled. “If you don’t send me the hotel room number before 8 o’clock, I’ll make sure countless more videos like this flood your phone. Consider it a lesson—watch and learn how real women serve their men.”
A deep, suffocating ache spread through my chest. My fingers clenched around the phone.
“…I’ll go,” I whispered.
Christopher sighed in satisfaction.
“Ariana, remember this—you chose this life.” His voice was cold, cutting. “Eight years ago, you took advantage of my family’s bankruptcy and forced me and Liz apart. The day you dragged me back to your home, you should have known—you’d never get even a sliver of my love.”
And then, he hung up.
Tears burned down my cheeks.
He was right.
Eight years ago, I foolishly believed that if I just had enough time, I could warm Christopher’s heart.
But today, I understood how naïve I had been.
For eight years, he had taken countless women to bed.
And now, he didn’t even bother to hide it anymore.
I knew what would happen if I didn’t go. The video wouldn’t just stay on my phone. By tomorrow morning, every major media outlet in Boston would have it.
The Anderson Family had been a pillar of this city for over a century.
I couldn’t drag my father through another scandal—couldn’t let my mistakes taint his legacy.
Christopher had spent years making sure my life was miserable, doing everything in his power to break me.
I didn’t know when his love had twisted into such cruel, unforgiving hatred.
How had we ended up here?
A sharp pain suddenly tore through my lower abdomen.
I gasped, pressing my hand against the wall as a fresh wave of blood gushed from my body.
I had no time to deal with it.
Biting down on the pain, I forced myself to stand, grabbed my things and walked out of the ward.
Ten minutes later, I sent Christopher the hotel room number.
As I waited for his reply, my fingers idly scrolled through our past messages.
Thousands of texts sent from me.
Barely a handful of replies from him—each one short, indifferent, dismissive.
I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—a hollow smile on my lips, eyes dull with exhaustion.
With a bitter chuckle, I tossed my phone onto the seat.
Half an hour later, I arrived at his hotel room. In my hands was the lace lingerie he had purchased.
The first time he bought me something like this, I had been nervous, shy—but I hadn’t refused.
That night, I gave him everything.
And yet, as he moved above me, lost in pleasure, he moaned only one name.
Lisa.
I had lain awake beside him till dawn, silently crying as he slept.
From that night on, I never wore lingerie like this again.
But Christopher always had his ways.
If I refused, he’d simply make another woman wear it—then send me the pictures as casually as if he were saying good morning and good night.
A cruel game. One he played well.
The door swung open.
Christopher stood there in a loose bathrobe, smirking down at me. His eyes glinted with amusement.
“Hmm… You’re one minute late,” he drawled. “I’ll forgive you this time. But don’t be late again.”
Before I could respond, another figure stepped into view.
Lisa.
She wrapped her arms around Christopher’s waist, pressing herself against him as she leaned toward me with a sweet, innocent smile.
“How thoughtful of you,” she cooed, tilting her head. “You brought it here yourself?”
