His Cold Disgust, Her Pain

His Cold Disgust, Her Pain

Gavin

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The cold moonlight painted shadows across the floor, doing nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in my bones as I knelt before my husband, Valerius. Just a year ago, he had promised me forever, swearing he' d always be my shield. Now, he looked at me with cold disgust. "Explain this," he demanded, tearing open my nightgown to reveal the withered flower branded into my shoulder – a symbol of shame, a mark of the lowest. Tears welled, blurring his furious face. I couldn' t tell him the truth, a horrific secret I' d sworn to keep to protect him. He shoved me away, calling me soiled, then laughed cruelly, refusing to "dirty his hands" on me, before storming out, slamming the door on everything we were. Driven by desperation, I tried to carve the mark off, nearly taking my life before my maid, Clara, stopped me, suggesting a brutal herbal remedy instead. The agony was blinding, but I endured it, for him, for us, for the love I yearned to reclaim. With a raw, weeping scar where the brand once was, I found him, hoping to see a flicker of the man I knew. He stared at my wound, then laughed, a short, ugly sound. "A scar is just as ugly as a brand. It proves nothing." My hope shattered, he delivered the final blow: he was marrying my cousin, Isabella, in a week. The physical pain from my scar was nothing compared to the gaping wound he' d torn in my chest, leaving me an empty void.

Introduction

The cold moonlight painted shadows across the floor, doing nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in my bones as I knelt before my husband, Valerius.

Just a year ago, he had promised me forever, swearing he' d always be my shield. Now, he looked at me with cold disgust.

"Explain this," he demanded, tearing open my nightgown to reveal the withered flower branded into my shoulder – a symbol of shame, a mark of the lowest.

Tears welled, blurring his furious face. I couldn' t tell him the truth, a horrific secret I' d sworn to keep to protect him.

He shoved me away, calling me soiled, then laughed cruelly, refusing to "dirty his hands" on me, before storming out, slamming the door on everything we were.

Driven by desperation, I tried to carve the mark off, nearly taking my life before my maid, Clara, stopped me, suggesting a brutal herbal remedy instead.

The agony was blinding, but I endured it, for him, for us, for the love I yearned to reclaim.

With a raw, weeping scar where the brand once was, I found him, hoping to see a flicker of the man I knew.

He stared at my wound, then laughed, a short, ugly sound. "A scar is just as ugly as a brand. It proves nothing."

My hope shattered, he delivered the final blow: he was marrying my cousin, Isabella, in a week.

The physical pain from my scar was nothing compared to the gaping wound he' d torn in my chest, leaving me an empty void.

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"Lucien, let's get a divorce," I said in a peremptory tone that was long overdue, the most decisive farewell to this absurd marriage. We had been married for exactly three years-three years that, for me, were filled with nothing but endless loneliness and torment. For three years, the husband who should have stood by my side through every storm, Lucien Sullivan, had completely disappeared from my life as if he had never existed. He vanished without a trace, leaving me alone to endure this empty, desolate marriage. Today, I finally received his message: "I'm back. Come pick me up at the airport." When I read his words, my heart leapt with joy, and I raced to the airport, thinking that he finally understood my love and was coming back to me. But his cruelty was far worse than I could have ever imagined-he was accompanied by a pregnant woman, and that woman was Carla, my closest and most trusted friend. In that moment, all of my previous excitement, all my hope, and all of our shared laughter and tears turned into the sharpest of daggers, stabbing into my heart and leaving me gasping for air. Now, all I want is to escape from this place that has left me so broken-to lick my wounds in solitude. Even if these wounds will remain with me for the rest of my life, I refuse to have anything to do with him ever again. He should know that it was his own hand that trampled our love underfoot, that his coldness and betrayal created this irreparable situation. But when he heard those words, he desperately clung to this broken, crumbling marriage, unwilling to let it end-almost as though doing so could rewind time and return everything to how it used to be. "Aurora, come back. I regret everything!" Regret? Those simple words stirred no emotion in me-only endless sadness and fury. My heart let out a frantic, desperate scream: It's too late for any of this!

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