I woke up with a pounding headache, my body aching as if I had been run over by a truck. The room was dimly lit, unfamiliar. Panic surged through me as I pushed myself up from the soft mattress. My throat felt dry, my heart racing. Where am I?
I scanned the room—plain white walls, a small window with thick curtains drawn shut, and a locked door. I rushed toward it, jiggling the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
Trapped.
Fear tightened around my chest. The last thing I remembered was Stephanie drugging my drink at the party. I had trusted her. She was my best friend. Why would she do this to me?
Hours passed. My stomach churned with hunger, and my lips were parched. Just as I was about to scream for help, the door creaked open. Stephanie walked in, carrying a tray of food.
Anger flared inside me. The moment she stepped closer, I slapped her across the face, my palm stinging from the impact.
"Why the hell did you do this to me?!" My voice trembled with rage.
Stephanie barely flinched. She simply touched her cheek, then smirked, lifting her left hand. A silver ring gleamed on her index finger.
My breath hitched. "What… what is that?"
She took a deep breath, her expression unreadable. "I’m married, Sarah. To Gerard."
The words hit me like a freight train. My mind refused to process it. "No. That’s not possible. You’re lying."
Stephanie tilted her head, almost amused. "It’s been a month since we got married."
Everything inside me froze. My ears rang, and my vision blurred for a moment. "No… He was supposed to marry me."
"He changed his mind," she said simply. "After the pictures of you at the club surfaced, he realized you would ruin his image. His company. He couldn't take the risk."
My legs wobbled, forcing me to grip the edge of the bed. I had been framed. But what hurt the most wasn’t that Gerard had left me—it was that I had actually loved him. Even if our engagement had been arranged, even if I once hated the idea, I grew to care for him. And now… he was gone.
Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "Then why the hell am I here? Why not just let me go?"
Stephanie’s expression hardened. She placed the tray on the bedside table and crossed her arms. "Because you’re carrying his child."
A sharp chill ran down my spine. I instinctively placed a hand over my stomach. "What?"
"Gerard doesn’t know," she continued, her tone eerily calm. "And he never will. You’re getting an abortion, Sarah."
My blood ran cold. "No."
Stephanie’s eyes darkened. "You don’t have a choice."
"Take everything," I spat, my voice breaking. "Take my wealth, take Gerard, take it all! Just… don’t take my baby."
It was the only thing I had left of him. The last piece of my shattered life.
Stephanie’s face twisted with anger. She grabbed the tray of food and threw it at me. The plate shattered, food splattering onto the floor. Without another word, she stormed out, locking the door behind her.
Days turned into weeks. I had lost count of how many times she came to torment me, throwing cruel words, trying to break me. But I held on. For my baby.
Then, one night, the door opened again. But this time, it wasn’t Stephanie.
Three men entered, their faces unreadable. Before I could react, one grabbed my arms, another tied my wrists with thick rope, and the third slapped a piece of duct tape over my mouth.
I thrashed, screamed against the tape, but my muffled cries were useless. They dragged me out of the room, down a dimly lit hallway, and into a black van.
The drive felt endless. My stomach twisted in fear. When we finally stopped, they hauled me out, and I realized where we were.
A clinic.
My knees buckled. No. No. No
They pulled me inside, straight to a cold metal operating table. I struggled, but they strapped me down. My body trembled as a man in a white coat stepped forward—the doctor.
I could barely breathe as he removed the duct tape. Tears streamed down my face as I pleaded, "Please… don’t do this."
The doctor ignored me, scribbling on a clipboard.
Desperation clawed at my throat. "What if it was your wife? What if someone did this to her?" My voice wavered, raw with emotion. "Would you let them?"
He paused. His grip on the pen tightened. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face.
"Please," I whispered. "You can fake it. Say you did it, but don’t hurt my baby."
Silence.
Then, in a hushed voice, he said, "I’ll do it."
Relief flooded me.
The doctor turned to the men. "She needs rest after the procedure. If you move her too soon, she could hemorrhage."
One of the men scoffed. "Stephanie wants proof."
"You’ll have it."
They hesitated, then nodded and left the room.
The doctor worked quickly, setting up the scene—disposing of tools, smearing a bit of blood for authenticity. When the men returned, they inspected me, unconscious—or at least, pretending to be.
"She’s weak," the doctor said firmly. "You move her now, she could die."
One of the men grumbled but relented. As soon as they turned away, the doctor pulled a syringe from his pocket and, in one swift motion, jabbed it into the nearest man's neck.
The man staggered before collapsing. The others barely had time to react before he injected them too. Within minutes, they were all unconscious.
The doctor rushed to untie me. "We need to go."
I was shaking too much to stand, but he supported me, half-carrying me out of the clinic. Before leaving, he disabled the security cameras.
Outside, he shoved me into a car and sped off. My entire body was trembling. "Who… who are you?"
He kept his eyes on the road. "Dr. Dior Veneracion."
Dr. Veneracion took me to his house, a secluded place far from the city. There, I met his daughter, Lizzy. At first, she was distant, wary. But over the weeks, she warmed up to me.
One night, as I watched the stars from the balcony, I heard soft sobs. I turned and found Dr. Veneracion standing by the railing, his shoulders shaking.
"Doctor?" I stepped closer. "What’s wrong?"
His hands curled into fists. Then, in a broken voice, he whispered,
"Gerard Faulino… killed my wife."
