He Saw My Soul Not My Scars

My husband, Jeremiah, let me die from an allergic reaction because he couldn't pause his video game. He dismissed my kidnapping as a prank and refused to come to the hospital when I was miscarrying our child.

But the final straw came when he ordered doctors to carve skin from my body for his mistress's minor burn.

He thought he had broken me, but he was wrong. I exposed his affair, took his company, and left him with nothing.

Years later, he crashed my wedding to another man, begging for a second chance. "Elena lied to me! She manipulated me! It was always you, Celina!"

I looked at the monster who had destroyed my life, my family, and my child.

Then I picked up a wine bottle and smashed it over his head.

Chapter 1

Celina POV:

The day I knew I had to leave Jeremiah wasn't one event. It was a slow, agonizing bleed, each drop of my love draining away until nothing but a hollow ache remained. He was a tech CEO, charismatic, brilliant even, but beneath that polished surface was a man who wielded incompetence like a weapon, aimed solely at me.

"Celina, I'm just about to beat this level," Jeremiah said, his eyes glued to the screen, his fingers flying across the controller. My throat was closing, my chest tightening with a terrifying speed. I could feel the familiar prickle of anaphylaxis spreading, a deadly fire beneath my skin.

"Jeremiah, please. My EpiPen. The emergency kit," I rasped, barely able to force the words out. My vision blurred. He sighed, an annoyed sound that cut deeper than any knife.

"Can't it wait five minutes? You always do this during my games."

I couldn't breathe. My hands clawed at my neck, but there was nothing there to unclog the air. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of my failing body. He was more concerned about a video game than my life.

I managed to point, a desperate, shaking finger towards the emergency kit. He glanced over, a flicker of something that might have been concern, quickly replaced by irritation. He reluctantly paused the game, the victorious fanfare of his digital world silenced, but the real-world danger still ignored. He walked slowly, deliberately, to the kit. He fumbled with the clasp, his actions clumsy, as if the urgency was beyond his comprehension. It took an eternity. By the time the needle finally pierced my thigh, I was already fading, my world dimming to a pinpoint. I woke up in the ER, alone, the stark white walls a testament to his neglect.

That should have been my breaking point. But love, or what I thought was love, is a stubborn, stupid thing.

Then came the kidnapping. The terror was unlike anything I had ever known. Blindfolded, bound, thrown into the back of a van, my mind raced. I imagined Jeremiah, furious and determined, tearing the city apart to find me. When the call came, I heard his voice, cold and distant, on the other end.

"This is a joke, right? I'm busy. Don't call this number again," he snapped, his voice laced with annoyance.

My heart shattered into a million pieces. The kidnappers, initially aggressive, were almost amused. They hung up, then called back, trying to convince him. Each time, he dismissed them, his tone increasingly impatient. He thought it was a prank. He thought my life, my abduction, was a setup, an inconvenience designed to disrupt his day. I survived, not because of him, but despite him. I returned home battered and bruised, but he barely met my gaze, too engrossed in his work. He never asked what happened. He never asked if I was okay.

My love, already a fragile thing, started to wither.

The final, fatal blow came with the baby. Our baby. I was so careful, so hopeful. But a sudden, sharp pain, a gush of blood, and I knew. Panic seized me. I called him, my voice trembling, tears streaming down my face.

"Jeremiah, I'm bleeding. I think it's the baby. I need to go to the hospital. Now."