The Wife He Tried to Erase

lia

bol of refuge, now felt like an entrance to a tomb. I pulled out the Florence ticket, its smooth surface a tangible p

weeks that I had dismissed as stress. I stumbled to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. When the spasm passed, I re

ame, Adelia Figueroa, was printed at the top. And then, a date. Weeks ago. Before the galle

had known all along. He had hidden it from me. The man who had shown me such cruelty, the man who

ngible thing left from the wreckage of my life. The only person who would truly be my blood. I

d with a new purpose. The nausea returned, but this

caught in my throat. His face was unreadabl

is voice softer than

, devoid of emotion. I held up the

lightly, then he s

ile you were parading your mistress, while you were humiliating me, whi

oncern. "Adelia, I was trying to protect you. There's so much stress right

nts of my composure crumbling. "This isn't 'th

lia, listen to me. We need to be rational about this." He pau

y lungs. "What?" I whispered, af

voice chillingly calm. "We ne

!" I shrieked, clutching my stomach

pt. An installation about 'new life.' She wants to use... the fetus. She says you're her 'muse of primal

our child. Our unborn child. As art. For his mistress. M

treaming down my face. "You want to kill our baby for h

hings are less chaotic. Now, stop being difficult. My men are waiting." He sign

ith, please! Don't do this! Don't hurt our baby!" I pleaded, my voice r

r. I fought, kicked, screamed. "Please! My baby! Our baby! Griffith, remember yo

t's for the best, Adelia. For e

erile smell, the cold, clinical efficiency. I was on a gurney, strapped down. White light. Instruments. Cold ha

embered Griffith's hand on my stomach, months ago, whispering about a nursery,

llow emptiness. It was gone. My baby. My only

hit me like a physical blow. The child was gone. My body felt like a ghost, a hollow vessel. My eye

no home, no family. I got up, my movements slow, deliberate

to lock the door. Let him have it. It meant nothing to me anymo

my hand. The headline blazed across the screen: "Beryl Aguirre's Controversial 'New Li

A wave of pure, unadulterated agony washed over me. I wanted to scream, to rage, to smash the screen. But I cou

uits. My blood ran cold. This couldn't be happening. Not again. A hand cl

kne

thick with the smell of cheap disinfectant. A single spotlight glared down on me, m

ice devoid of emotion. "Y

as strong. "You murdered our child, Griffith!

family is distancing themselves. We need damage control. You're going to go on live television. You're going to tell them

ant me to say our baby was stillborn? To c

if that explained everything. "And ou

fury. "You are a murderer, Griffith W

perate... that orphanage you love so much? The one you always pretend to care about? It would be

t his eyes, cold and calculating, told me he would. He woul

ce was broken. "Please...

?" he asked, a triumph

ping. "Yes," I choked out. "I'll do

at. I sat, my face a mask of grief and forced composure, reciting the lies Griffith had f

What a psycho!" "Using her dead baby for fame!" "Disgusting! She deserv

e me sway. I felt faint. "I need to leav

behind me, placed a hand on my shoulde

orced a bitter, humorless laugh. Of course I had. He