Introduction

The harsh fluorescent lights hummed as my son, Leo, struggled for breath, his skin a terrifying blue.

"Anaphylactic shock," the doctor declared, holding the only available auto-injector – our son's last hope.

But then, my husband, Matthew, burst in, dragging his whimpering mistress, Tara Lawrence, who claimed she had a minor food reaction.

He demanded the life-saving epipen be given to her, shoving me aside, dismissing Leo's critical state as mere "drama."

I watched in cold horror as my child's only chance was wasted, his tiny gasps fading, my world crumbling around me.

His callous disregard continued as he mocked Leo's death, spilling his ashes, then locking me in the basement, calling me the monster, while Tara gloated about her pregnancy with his child.

How could the man I married abandon our dying son, desecrate his memory, then imprison me?

But their cruel victory was short-lived; I had a call to make, and a cold, hard resolve to show them what a true monster looked like.