His Betrayal, Her Unborn Child

“My family was a masterpiece, but underneath, it was rotting. We were the envy of the art world, with my formidable mother, respected father, and charming brother. And then there was me, Chloe, the sensitive artist they cultivated like a prized orchid. But I felt the chill of a long-buried secret, making me a stranger in my own home. Then I met Liam, an architect who built solid things, and for the first time, I felt seen. His love was a warm room in my cold house, and when I became pregnant, I imagined our perfect future. "We're pregnant," I whispered to him, and his face lit up with overwhelming joy. He became the doting husband, planning our child' s future, a warmth I' d craved my whole life. Life was perfect, until the prenatal genetic screening results arrived. He stood rigid, staring at his computer, the warmth draining from the room. "Liam, what is it?" I asked, my voice trembling as he turned, his face a mask of cold fury. "We have to get rid of it," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "The baby?" I stammered, unable to process his words. "Don't call it that," he snapped back, demanding I terminate the pregnancy tomorrow. Before I could react, my family walked in, and I rushed to them, crying, "Liam... he wants me to have an abortion! He won't tell me why!" My mother' s perfectly manicured nails dug into my skin, her voice like chipping ice. "He's right, Chloe," she said, her grim resolve mirroring Liam's. "You have to do this," my father added, his tone leaving no room for argument. My brother sneered, "Don't be stupid, Chloe. You can't have this... thing." They closed in, calling my child "unnatural" and "tainted." Their persuasion turned to force, dragging me towards a car that would take me to a clinic. I fought, screamed, and clawed, a wild animal fighting for its young. I escaped into a labyrinth of city alleys, their footsteps pounding behind me. I slipped, crashing hard, and felt a sharp, searing pain. A crimson stain spread across my dress; my baby, my innocent life, was slipping away. My family stood over me, their faces impassive, utterly devoid of love, as I blacked out. I awoke in a sterile mental institution, committed by them. For months, I was a ghost in a white gown, drugged, tormented, chipped away until I died, alone, my family' s secret safe. Then, I opened my eyes. I was in my bed, whole, my stomach flat. I scrambled for my phone; it was the day the genetic test results were due. The day my world had ended. And it was all about to happen again. But this time, I had a memory, a prophecy. I had died, and now I was back, filled with a cold, clear purpose: to get the report, to understand why, and to make them pay.”