The Husband Who Broke Me

failing art gallery, renovated it, and filled it with only my paintings for my first solo exhibition, ensuring every major critic in the country was there to

in my life, a devotion so extreme it bordered on obsession, and I mistook it for saf

ng our six-month-old son, Leo, to sleep. Liam walked in, his face pale, his usual warm smile g

d, the words dropping into

ng on Leo' s back. "Wha

e automatically, his voice cold and dista

ing influencer whose feed was full of inspirational quotes and demure selfies. The girl who call

spered, my voice trembling. "It'

ed by a stranger with eyes of ice. "What matters is that she believes it, and she's threatening to go to the

ied about our marriage, about me, about the son sleep

o?" I asked, a knot of drea

move in here, and you will help me create the illusion that you are the one who is pregnant again. We will stage

t me to lie? To pretend to be pregna

g whisper. "Or what, Ava? You'll leave me? Take my son? Don't forget, I have the best lawyers in the world. I can make it so you never see Leo again. I can paint

s so fragile, doesn't he? It would be a shame if he had to grow up without his mother. Or worse, if something happened to him in a messy

his isn't you. Think about us. Think about our son. I love you. Remember the gallery? The island? You

atly. "There is only Chloe now. She needs me. You will do as I say." He turned and walked out of the nursery, leaving me shivering in the cold reality of his betrayal. M

is medication religiously, sitting by his crib day and night, praying for his fever to break. But he only got weaker. His small body struggled for every breath. Chloe, living with us now, would often come

ought he was asleep. I watched, my blood turning to ice, as she took the medicine bottle, emptied a small a

the crib. "What did you do?" I shrieked,

tears, collapsing against him. "Liam, she's going crazy! She

g finger at her. "I saw you watering down

Chloe, glaring at me as if I were the monster. "She's pregnant and fragile.

days later, my son, my sweet, innocent Leo, died in my arms in a cold, sterile hospital room. The official cause was complications from the infection, the

ocating. I walked past Liam's study and heard his voice, low and gentle. I pressed m

ll take care of you. I know it's hard, but soon it will all be over, an

unbearable ocean of pain. I walked to my art studio, the one he had built for me, and found the contact information for my old friend, Dr. Ben, a therapist who specialized in experimental trauma treatments. I sent him a single text: I need to