The Wife He Left For Dead

Tentu, saya akan menambahkan POV (Point of View) ke setiap bab sesuai dengan permintaan Anda, tanpa mengubah format atau konten lainnya.

On our fifth anniversary, I lay dying on the bathroom floor while my husband ignored my calls to celebrate with his "best friend."

When my neighbor finally rushed me to the ER for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, my husband arrived hours later, annoyed that I' d ruined his night.

But the real betrayal came when he forced me to drink tequila days after surgery, watching me bleed out just to please his mistress.

At Elsa's launch party, Gideon snatched the shot glass and shoved the alcohol down my throat, mocking my pain as "drama."

As a fresh pool of crimson soaked my dress, he didn't call 911.

He turned to comfort Elsa, who was "shaken" by the scene.

I survived only because of Alva, the reclusive billionaire next door, who shielded my dignity with his jacket while my husband stepped over me.

Recovering in Alva' s care, I discovered the "award-winning" designs Gideon had gifted Elsa were actually mine-stolen from my college archives years ago.

They thought I was the fragile, obedient wife who would die quietly in the background.

They were wrong.

I wiped the blood from my legs, accepted Alva's offer, and prepared to burn their stolen empire to the ground.

Chapter 1

Dahlia POV

My fifth wedding anniversary was supposed to be a night of quiet celebration, not a silent plea for help echoing in an empty house while my husband ignored my calls, choosing his 'best friend' over my life.

I had spent hours on the meal. Braised short ribs, a bottle of the Cabernet Gideon loved, and a chocolate lava cake from that fancy patisserie downtown. The dining table sparkled with candlelight, reflecting off the crystal glasses I' d polished myself. I even wore the silk slip dress Gideon bought me for our first anniversary, the one he said made me look like an old Hollywood star. I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted him to remember us.

The clock on the mantel ticked louder with each passing minute. Seven o'clock came and went. Then eight. I sent a text, "Dinner's ready, love. Missing you." No reply. I tried calling. It went straight to voicemail. Again. And again.

My fingers trembled as I picked up my phone for the tenth time. A message finally popped up, not from Gideon, but from our mutual friend, Elsa Rodgers. It was a selfie of her and Gideon, both beaming, champagne flutes in hand. The caption read: "So proud of my amazing mentor and friend, Gideon Knight, for supporting me at the 'Designer of the Year' launch party! What a night!"

My stomach dropped, a cold, hard knot forming where my hopes had been. Designer of the Year? Launch party? He had told me he had a "client emergency" that couldn't wait. He'd said it with such a serious voice, such convincing urgency. I had bought it, like I always did.

I stared at the picture, at Gideon's arm slung casually around Elsa, his smile wider than I' d seen it in months. There was no 'client emergency.' There was just Elsa. Always Elsa.

A wave of nausea washed over me, but it wasn't from the betrayal this time. It was a sharp, searing pain in my lower abdomen. I clutched my stomach, trying to breathe through it. It had been coming and going for a few days, a dull ache I'd brushed off as stress. Now, it was a knife twisting deep inside me.

I walked to the dining table, the flickering candles suddenly mocking my efforts. The short ribs were cold. The wine untouched. I blew out the candles one by one, the smoke curling upwards like my shattered dreams. The silk dress felt heavy, suffocating. I peeled it off and threw it onto the bed, the expensive fabric landing with a whisper.

Just yesterday, I had found out. A tiny, faint line on the home pregnancy test. A miracle I hadn' t dared to hope for after so many months of trying, so many disappointments. I' d wanted to tell Gideon tonight, make it a surprise, watch his face light up. I' d imagined him holding me, finally truly looking at me, excited about our future.

But looking at that photo of him and Elsa, his hand on her back, their heads close, I knew I couldn' t. Not tonight. Not ever, if this was how he saw our life together. My secret, our secret, would stay mine alone. It felt safer that way.

The pain intensified, a relentless cramp that made me double over. I tried to remember what the instructions on the pregnancy test said about severe pain. It didn't say anything. I just remembered the joy, the tiny, fragile hope blooming in my chest. I couldn't lose this baby. Not now. Not when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

I forced myself to eat a few bites of toast, even as the pain made my jaw clench. I drank some water. I needed to be strong. For my baby. For myself.

But the pain was getting worse. It felt like fire, then ice, spreading through my belly, seizing my muscles. I stumbled to the bathroom, my vision blurring. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I splashed water on my face, but it didn't help.

Then I saw it. A dark, crimson stain on my underwear. My heart hammered against my ribs. No. Not this. Not now. Not after everything.

Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and fast, not just for the pain, but for the fear. The fear of losing this tiny life I had just found, this little piece of hope in my desolate marriage. I sank to the cold tile floor, clutching my stomach, gasping for air.

"Gideon," I whispered, my voice a raw croak. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat. I called him again. And again. No answer. His "client emergency" was more important. Elsa's launch party was more important.

I tried to stand, to get help, to do something. But a fresh wave of agony slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. My legs gave out. I hit the floor with a thud, a sharp pain shooting through my hip.

I remembered the doctor's words from months ago, after my last miscarriage scare. "Any severe pain, any bleeding, call us immediately." I had been so careful. So hopeful.

Now, as I lay there, helpless, the hallway light seemed to dim. The world tilted. My calls to Gideon went unanswered, swallowed by the silence of our empty home. Was this it? Was this how it ended?

A faint knocking. I barely registered it. Then louder, insistent. My neighbor? Alva Booker? He was reclusive, a man of few words, hardly ever seen outside his perfectly manicured estate next door. What would he want?

Another wave of pain, sharper than anything before, ripped through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, a whimper escaping my lips. The knocking stopped. A moment of silence. Then, the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Our house key. The spare I' d given Alva for emergencies, months ago, when Gideon was away on a 'business trip' and I'd locked myself out. I' d forgotten about it.

The front door creaked open. A tall, dark silhouette filled the doorway. Alva. His usually stoic face was etched with concern as he saw me crumpled on the floor, a growing crimson pool beneath me.

"Dahlia!" His voice was deep, laced with an urgency I' d never heard from him. He was beside me in an instant, his hands gentle as he tried to lift me. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"No," I choked out, tears streaming down my face. "The baby... I think... I'm bleeding."

His eyes widened, then hardened with a fierce determination. He scooped me up, surprisingly strong, and carried me out of the house, my head lolling against his shoulder. The world spun. He laid me gently in the back seat of his sleek black sedan, then rushed around to the driver's side.

The drive to the ER was a blur of flashing lights and Alva's frantic questions. I could only manage gasps and whimpers. Everything hurt. My baby. My only hope.

At the ER, chaos. Nurses, doctors, bright lights. A cold, sterile room. Alva was there, a steady presence, holding my hand until they prepped me for surgery.

"Ectopic pregnancy, ruptured," I heard a doctor say, their voice distant, muffled. "We need to operate immediately. She's losing a lot of blood."

Ruptured. That word echoed in my mind, a death knell. It wasn't just the baby; it was me too.

I woke up hours later, groggy and disoriented, to the dull ache of a fresh incision. The room was quiet, sterile. No Gideon. Only Alva, sitting in a chair in the corner, his eyes closed, looking exhausted.

A nurse bustled in, her smile strained. "Ms. Rogers, you had a successful surgery. You're very lucky. Your neighbor got you here just in time."

"My baby?" I whispered, my voice rough.

Her smile faltered. "I'm so sorry, dear. We had to remove the ruptured fallopian tube. The pregnancy was not viable."

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I had. Gone. My baby was gone. The fragile hope, extinguished.

"We tried calling your husband," the nurse continued, oblivious to my internal scream. "Multiple times. He didn't answer."

I looked at Alva, who had opened his eyes and was now staring at me with profound sadness. He averted his gaze, respecting my pain.

"He was... busy," I managed, the bitterness a metallic taste in my mouth.

The nurse nodded sympathetically. "Well, you'll need a lot of rest. And someone to help you through this. It was a very close call. You almost didn't make it."

"He wouldn't care," I said, my voice flat. My eyes drifted to the small bedside table. A faint glow from my phone. I reached for it, my fingers fumbling with the screen. It was Gideon's Instagram. A fresh post.

Another photo of him and Elsa, but this time, he was on stage, accepting an award. His arm was still around her. He was beaming. His "best friend" had won "Designer of the Year." He had been there for her. Always for her.

I let the phone drop, the sound barely audible. The words of the nurse, "You almost didn't make it," replayed in my head. He had ignored my calls. He had chosen her over me, over us. Over my very life.

The door creaked open, and a doctor walked in, a serious expression on his face. He checked my vitals, then turned to Alva. "We need to ensure Ms. Rogers has proper care during her recovery. Emotional support is crucial for this kind of loss." He looked at me. "Is your husband on his way?"

I met the doctor's gaze, a cold, empty calm settling over me. "My husband," I said, my voice devoid of emotion, "is already here." I glanced pointedly at the phone on the table, its screen still displaying Gideon and Elsa's triumphant smiles. "Just not in the way you mean."

Dahlia POV

The doctor looked from me to the phone, then back to Alva, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He didn't press the issue. My husband, Gideon, finally arrived hours later. He strode in, looking disheveled, but not from worry. More like he' d been dragged out of a party.

"Dahlia, what happened?" he asked, his voice laced with annoyance rather than concern. "I told you I was busy. You know how important Elsa's launch was." He didn't even look at Alva, who was still silently sitting in the corner, observing.

"I nearly died, Gideon," I said, my voice flat, devoid of the pain that was still tearing me apart inside. "I had an ectopic pregnancy. It ruptured."

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "An ectopic what? Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" He sounded offended, as if I had deliberately kept a secret to inconvenience him.

"I was going to," I replied, the words tasting like ash. "Last night. Our anniversary dinner. You never showed up."

He scoffed. "And you think that's a reason to... to have some kind of medical emergency? You're so dramatic, Dahlia. Always making everything about you." He gestured vaguely at my bandaged stomach. "I missed the after-party because of this. You ruined my night."

My heart, already shattered, splintered further. Ruined his night. Not our baby. Not my life. Just his inconvenience.

Alva, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his voice low and steady. "She could have died, Gideon. She was bleeding out when I found her."

Gideon finally noticed Alva, his gaze sharpening with suspicion. "And who are you? What are you doing here?"

"He's my neighbor," I clarified, my eyes still fixed on Gideon. "He saved my life."

Gideon waved a dismissive hand. "Well, thank you for your... neighborly duties. But I'm here now. You can leave." His tone was cold, arrogant.

Alva just nodded, a tight line to his lips. He stood up, his gaze lingering on me for a moment, a silent message of sympathy passing between us. "I'll be nearby if you need anything, Dahlia," he said, then quietly left the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the man I had married, the man who saw my near-death and the loss of our child as an annoyance.

"You need to rest now," Gideon said, his voice softer, but it was a performative softness, not genuine concern. He took out his phone. "I'll tell my assistant to arrange for you to go home tomorrow. You'll need to clean up the house, I suppose. It must be a mess."

Clean up the house. That was his first thought.

I looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw a stranger. A selfish, narcissistic stranger who had never cared for me as much as he cared for his image, his career, or Elsa. The last thread of love, of hope, snapped inside me.

"Gideon," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I want a divorce."

He froze, his phone halfway to his ear. "What did you say?"

"I want a divorce," I repeated, each word a stone falling into a deep, dark well. "I'm done."

He scoffed, a humorless sound. "Don't be ridiculous, Dahlia. You're emotional. You've been through a lot. You don't mean that."

"Oh, but I do," I countered, a bitter smile touching my lips. "I mean it more than anything I've ever said."

He stared at me, a mixture of disbelief and irritation on his face. He actually thought I was bluffing. He actually thought I would take him back.

My phone buzzed on the table. A message. From Gideon's number. A link to an online flower delivery service. "Sorry the party wasn't great for you. Hope these cheer you up." It was a generic bouquet of roses, already wilted in my mind. A careless, thoughtless gesture. He hadn't even bothered to buy them himself.

And then, his latest Instagram post popped up. A new photo, taken perhaps minutes after he left the hospital room. It was another selfie with Elsa, this time captioned, "Back to celebrating with the real MVP! The night is still young, my dear Elsa!"

My blood ran cold. He had left my bedside, knowing I had just lost our baby and nearly my life, to go back to her. To celebrate her.

"You really are something else, Gideon," I murmured, my voice a dangerous whisper. "You leave me dying, ignore my calls, then come here, complain about your ruined night, and go straight back to celebrating with Elsa. All while sending me a 'sorry' bouquet you ordered online?"

He flinched, caught. "It's not like that, Dahlia. You're overreacting. Elsa needed me. She was upset about something."

"Upset?" I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that brought tears to my eyes. "She was upset? While I was bleeding out on my floor? While I was losing our baby? Do you know what an ectopic pregnancy means, Gideon? It means it never had a chance. And if Alva hadn't found me, I wouldn't have either."

He looked away, uncomfortable. "Look, we can talk about this later. You're not thinking clearly."

"I've never been clearer," I stated, my voice gaining strength. "I'm done. I want nothing from you. Just sign the papers."

He turned back to me, his jaw clenched. "You're just jealous, Dahlia. You always have been. Elsa and I have a bond you'll never understand. She's family. My rock."

"Your rock?" I spat, the bitterness finally overflowing. "She's your mistress, your financial drain, and the reason you embezzled our savings to fund her pathetic lifestyle brand! Don't you dare talk about jealousy. I'm not jealous of a fraud who can't design her way out of a paper bag!"

His face went pale, then purple with rage. "How dare you! You have no idea what you're talking about! You think you're so smart, don't you? Sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself, while I'm out there making a living, supporting us."

"Supporting us?" I scoffed. "By ignoring me, by cheating on me, by stealing from me? I've supported your career for years, Gideon! I put my dreams aside for you! I built your firm from the ground up while you took all the credit!"

He lunged for my phone, his eyes wild. "You're going crazy! You're saying insane things!"

Just then, Alva returned, carrying a small paper bag. "They said you might be hungry, Dahlia. I got you some soup." He stopped dead, sensing the tension in the room.

Gideon wheeled around, his face contorted in a mask of fury. "Get out! What part of 'leave' didn't you understand, neighbor? You think you can just waltz in here, try to steal my wife, and get away with it?"

Alva set the soup down, his gaze unwavering. "I'm here for Dahlia. She needs a friend, not a tyrant."

"Tyrant?" Gideon roared, his voice echoing in the small room. He pointed a trembling finger at Alva. "I'm her husband! And you," he turned back to me, his voice a venomous hiss, "you're nothing but a pathetic, self-pitying excuse for a wife! And for a mother! You couldn't even keep a baby, could you?"

The words ripped through me, tearing open fresh wounds. My breath caught in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back the urge to scream. Not for myself, but for the tiny life he had just so carelessly insulted.

I opened my eyes, a cold fire burning within me. "Get out, Gideon," I whispered, my voice dangerously calm. "Get out of my sight. Get out of my life. You want a divorce? Consider it done. You'll hear from my lawyer."

He stood there, stunned, his anger warring with a flicker of fear. He must have seen the finality in my eyes, the absolute, unshakeable resolve.

"You'll regret this, Dahlia!" he snarled, turning on his heel and storming out of the room. The door slammed shut with a deafening bang.

Moments later, my phone began to buzz furiously. Text messages, dozens of them, flooding in from Gideon. Accusations, insults, threats. Then pleas, promises, apologies. All empty. All too late.

I picked up the phone, scrolled through the angry, desperate words, then calmly blocked his number. He was a ghost now. A memory I was determined to erase.

Alva gently placed a hand on my arm. "Are you okay?"

I looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time. Not as my neighbor, but as my savior. My friend. "No," I admitted, a single tear escaping. "But I will be."

I spent another day in the hospital, recovering physically but rebuilding my spirit. The doctors cleared me for discharge the next morning. Alva was there again, waiting patiently.

"I can take you home, if you'd like," he offered, his voice soft.

Home. The place Gideon and I had shared, now tainted by his betrayal and my loss. But it was my home too. And it was where I would start fresh.

"Yes, please," I said, a faint smile touching my lips.

As we walked out, I saw him. Gideon. Standing by the entrance, looking anxious. He must have been waiting.

"Dahlia!" he called out, rushing towards us. He ignored Alva, his eyes fixed on me. "What are you doing? I thought you'd call me. We need to go home. The house is a mess. And I have a meeting this afternoon, you need to prepare my files." He spoke as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn't just ended our marriage.

My smile vanished. The last shred of me that might have hesitated, might have wavered, solidified into granite. He truly saw me as his unpaid assistant, his homemaker, his convenient wife. Nothing more.

"The house is no longer your concern, Gideon," I said, my voice cold and distant. "And neither are your files."

He frowned, confused. "What are you talking about? You're my wife. You take care of these things."

"Not anymore," I stated, my gaze boring into him. "I'm going home. To pack my things. And then, I'm going to file for divorce."

His face paled, then flushed with anger. "You can't be serious! You're still sick, you're not thinking straight. You're just being dramatic." He looked at Alva, then back at me. "Is this about him? Is he poisoning your mind?"

Alva stepped forward, a protective glint in his eyes. But I put a hand on his arm, a silent signal. I needed to do this myself.

"This is about you, Gideon," I said, every word carefully chosen. "About your choices. About your priorities."

He scoffed. "You think you can just walk away? You have nothing without me, Dahlia. No career, no money..."

"I have my dignity," I cut him off, my voice unwavering. "Something you clearly lost a long time ago."

He opened his mouth to retort, but then his eyes lit up, a malicious glint replacing the anger. "Fine. If you want a divorce, you can have it. But not before you come with me." He grabbed my arm, surprisingly strong, pulling me towards a waiting car. "Elsa's celebrating her award tonight. You're coming. You can pretend to be the supportive wife one last time."

My heart hammered, not from fear, but from a strange, cold resolve. This was it. The final act.

"Let go of me, Gideon," I said, my voice low, but he only tightened his grip.

"You're making a scene, Dahlia," he hissed, pulling me harder. "Don't embarrass me."

I didn't resist. I just let him drag me. I would go. I would see his true face, and Elsa's. And then, I would make them regret every single second of it. My eyes met Alva's over Gideon's shoulder. He looked concerned, but I offered him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. I had to see this through.

Dahlia POV

Gideon dragged me through the opulent lobby of the Grand Hyatt, past the glittering chandeliers and hushed whispers, towards the private ballroom. The scent of expensive perfume and champagne hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the antiseptic smell of the hospital that still clung to me. He held my arm in a vice grip, his touch cold and possessive. I didn't fight him. I was done fighting him. I was just observing, collecting evidence for the war to come.

"Smile, Dahlia," he hissed as we approached the entrance. "Don't you dare ruin this for me."

I offered the barest hint of a curve to my lips, a hollow, empty gesture that felt more like a grimace. My resolve was a hard knot in my chest. This was the last time I would play this part. The last time I would be his prop. Tonight, the charade would end.

The ballroom was a sea of designer clothes and preening faces. Everyone who was anyone in the local design and architecture scene was here. And right in the center of it all, bathed in the spotlight, was Elsa Rodgers, radiating an artificial glow. She wore a shimmering gown, and a large, gaudy "Designer of the Year" trophy sat proudly on a pedestal beside her.

As Gideon steered me towards a group of his friends, their eyes immediately went to me, then to my hospital-issued wristband, then back to my pale face. Whispers started. I stood there, a ghost amidst the glitter, a stark reminder of Gideon's supposed "client emergency."

"Gideon, darling! There you are!" Elsa shrieked, rushing over to him, pushing a group of admirers aside. She launched herself into his arms, kissing him on both cheeks, her eyes darting to me with a triumphant gleam. "I was wondering where you'd run off to!"

Gideon chuckled, his arm still around her waist. "Just had to tie up some loose ends, my dear. But I'm here now. For you." He completely dismissed me, but I didn't care. I just watched, a cold, clinical detachment settling over me.

"Oh, Dahlia," Elsa finally acknowledged me, her voice dripping with fake concern. "You look so... pale. Are you feeling alright? Gideon told us you had a bit of a tummy ache last night. Poor dear."

Tummy ache. That was his version.

A friend of Elsa's, a heavily made-up socialite, chimed in, "Yes, darling, you really shouldn't overwork yourself. Leave the heavy lifting to the men, right, Gideon?" She gave him a knowing wink. "Elsa, on the other hand, she's a force of nature! Truly a visionary. Designing all those incredible pieces, launching a brand, and still managing to be such a dedicated mother! How do you do it?"

Elsa primped, basking in the adoration. "Oh, it's nothing, really. Just passion, you know? And a little help from my amazing friends." She squeezed Gideon's hand. "Especially Gideon, who's been such a surrogate father to little Leo."

My blood ran cold. Surrogate father. The words hit me harder than any physical blow. The way he looked at Elsa's child, the way he doted on him, the way he ignored our baby. This wasn't just an affair. This was a whole second life, a second family, built on my pain and his lies.

All eyes were on me then, a collective gasp. I knew my face must have betrayed my shock, my quiet horror.

Elsa, ever the manipulator, seized the moment. "Oh, Dahlia, dear, don't look so sad! We're celebrating! Let me get you a glass of champagne. It'll cheer you up!" She gestured to a passing waiter, then added, a little too loudly, "It' s on me! Tonight, everything is on me!"

"Actually," one of the guests, a young designer who looked vaguely uncomfortable, piped up, "Elsa, your designs are truly breathtaking. I saw the sketches of your latest collection. So unique, so organic. Where do you get your inspiration?"

Elsa giggled, "Oh, everywhere, darling! Life, nature, a little bit of magic..." She glanced at Gideon, a shared secret passing between them.

The knot in my stomach tightened, but not from pain this time. From a dawning, terrible suspicion. Organic. Unique. Those were my keywords. Those were the themes I explored in my college sketchbooks, in my early designs.

"Let's play a game!" another socialite chirped. "Truth or Dare! It's been ages!"

A bottle was spun. It landed on Elsa. "Truth or Dare, Elsa?"

Elsa, with a sly smile, chose "Truth."

Her friend, the one who'd praised her designs, asked, "Elsa, darling, tell us. How did you and Gideon first realize you were soulmates? Everyone says you two are practically inseparable."

Elsa giggled, her eyes sparkling. She glanced at Gideon, who was preening under the attention. "Oh, you know, we've always had a special connection. Since we were kids. Gideon just gets me. He understands my vision, my dreams..." She paused, her gaze flicking to me for a fraction of a second, a flicker of triumph there. "He's always been my biggest supporter."

My hands clenched, nails digging into my palms. I felt a surge of cold fury, but I kept my face impassive. This was the public declaration. The open mockery.

"And how does Dahlia feel about this 'special connection'?" another guest dared to ask, their eyes wide with morbid curiosity.

Elsa pouted sweetly. "Oh, Dahlia's a sweetheart. She understands. She knows Gideon would never do anything to hurt her. We're just friends. Honest!" Her eyes, however, told a different story. They were mocking, condescending.

I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if I were watching a play unfold, and I was merely a background character. All their fawning, all their sycophantic praise for Elsa, it was like a buzzing in my ears. I' d seen it before. Gideon always had a 'friend' or a 'muse' who took up all his time and attention. But Elsa was different. She was a black hole, sucking in everything around her, especially Gideon.

Before Gideon, I had loved my designs. My sketches. My ideas. I had a vision, a spark. He had told me to put it aside, to focus on his architectural firm. He' d said my talent was "too fragile" for the cutthroat industry. He'd gaslit me into believing I wasn't good enough, that my ideas were childish, undeveloped. He' d meticulously archived all my work, supposedly for "inspiration" for his firm, but really, to keep them hidden, to suppress me.

Now, as I looked at Elsa, at her smug smile, at the gaudy trophy, a horrifying thought began to form. My initial suspicion about her designs wasn' t just about the keywords. It was about something deeper, something I had buried for years.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental stuff!" the socialite who suggested the game cried out. "Next round! Spin the bottle!"

The bottle spun again. It landed on me.

My heart gave a lurch. This was it.

"Truth or Dare, Dahlia?" Elsa asked, her eyes glittering with malice. She knew I was vulnerable. She knew I was here against my will. This was her chance to humiliate me.

I met her gaze, a cold, hard resolve settling over me. "Truth." I had nothing left to hide. Nothing left to lose.

Elsa exchanged a look with Gideon, a flicker of surprise on his face. He probably expected me to pick dare, to refuse, to make a scene. But I was beyond caring about scenes.

"Alright, Dahlia," Elsa purred, her voice sweet as poison. "Tell us, honestly. What do you really think about Gideon's success? And about... us?" She gestured between herself and Gideon, a casual intimacy that made my stomach churn.

I took a deep breath, the stale champagne air filling my lungs. "I think Gideon thrives on others' validation," I said, my voice clear and steady, cutting through the sudden silence in the room. "And as for 'us'..." I looked pointedly at Gideon, then at Elsa, a bitter smile playing on my lips. "There is no 'us.' Not anymore. I'm divorcing Gideon."

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Gideon's face went white. Elsa's smile froze.

"What are you talking about, Dahlia?" Gideon hissed, gripping my arm again, his eyes wide with panic. "You're just upset. You don't mean that."

"Oh, I mean it," I said, pulling my arm free. "I mean it with every fiber of my being. You chose your 'soulmate' and her launch party over my life. So yes, Gideon, we're done."

He stammered, trying to regain his composure, his charismatic façade cracking. "Dahlia, baby, come on. Don't do this. We can talk. I'll make it up to you. Anything you want. A new car? A trip?"

His words were like a slap. He thought he could buy me. He thought my pain, my loss, my dignity could be bought with a car or a trip.

"Next round!" someone shouted, perhaps trying to diffuse the tension, or perhaps simply craving more drama. The bottle spun, wobbling to a stop.

It pointed directly at me. Again.

"Truth or Dare, Dahlia?" Elsa asked, her initial shock replaced by a cruel smirk. "I'll pick for her! Dare!" She practically crowed, enjoying my public humiliation. "I dare you, Dahlia," she continued, her eyes alight with malicious glee, "to drink a shot of... tequila! Right now! Prove you're not such a delicate flower after all!"

A shot of tequila. On an empty, recently operated-on stomach. After losing a pregnancy. It was a vicious, calculated move.

I felt Alva's presence, a phantom weight of concern, in the back of my mind. He knew I shouldn't.

Gideon, surprisingly, tried to intervene. "Elsa, don't be ridiculous. Dahlia just got out of the hospital." He was trying to save face, to appear like a concerned husband, not because he actually cared for my health, but because he was embarrassed.

"Oh, come on, Gideon!" Elsa whined, pouting. "It's just a little bit of fun! Unless... Dahlia's really that fragile? Does she have something to hide?" She looked pointedly at my stomach.

My gaze locked with hers. Fragile? Something to hide? You have no idea, Elsa.

A cold, defiant anger pulsed through me. I reached for the tequila bottle on the table, my hand steady. If she wanted a show, I'd give her one.

"Dahlia, no!" Gideon grabbed my wrist, his eyes wide, truly panicked now. He probably didn't want me to get sick here, publicly. "Don't do it! You're still recovering!"

"Let go of me, Gideon," I said, my voice dangerously low. "You wanted a show. You got it." I yanked my arm free, grabbed a shot glass, and poured the clear liquid.

"Dahlia, stop!" Gideon roared, his face contorted in a mix of fury and fear. He couldn't control me. And that realization seemed to drive him insane. "You are my wife! You will not embarrass me like this!"

His words. My wife. The irony was a bitter taste. He thought he owned me. He thought he could dictate my every move, even as he openly flaunted his affair.

Elsa, seeing Gideon's distress, stepped in, her voice deceptively sweet. "Gideon, it's fine! Just a little shot. It won't hurt her. If she can't even handle this, then what good is she?" Her eyes were still on my stomach, a calculating gleam there. She knew. She must have guessed about the pregnancy. And she wanted me to miscarry.

Gideon' s rage exploded. He roughly snatched the shot glass from my hand. Then, with a sudden, violent movement, he shoved it to my lips, forcing the burning liquid down my throat.

I gasped, choking, the tequila searing my esophagus. My body, already weak, buckled under the force. I lost my footing, falling backwards, my head hitting the edge of a nearby table with a sickening thud. The world spun. A sharp, agonizing pain erupted in my lower abdomen, worse than anything before.

I screamed, a primal sound torn from my throat. My hands instinctively flew to my stomach, pushing down, trying to stop the searing pain.

Gideon, momentarily shocked by his own violence, knelt beside me, his face a mask of fleeting concern. "Dahlia? Are you okay?" Then his eyes narrowed. "You're just being dramatic again, aren't you? Trying to get attention."

But then, as I clutched myself, desperately trying to hold myself together, a fresh warmth spread between my legs. I looked down.

A dark, crimson stain was rapidly blooming on my pale dress, spreading outwards, soaking the expensive fabric.

Someone screamed. "She's bleeding! My God, she's bleeding!"