Seven Years A Prisoner Wife

e marble countertops cold under her hands. Outside, the world knew her husband, David Chen, as a genius, a rising star in the tech world whose company w

oice quiet but sharp. "You killed my sister. This is where you belong." And so, night after night, she slept on a thin mat, the cold of the hardwood floor seeping into her bones, a constant reminder of her worthlessne

er degree was packed away in a box in the attic, a relic from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. Now, she was just a ghost in David' s perfect house, cooking his meals, clea

s, she had meticulously saved every penny she could find, skimming from the grocery money, picking up coins on the street, selling small, hand-drawn sketche

call, smiling his brilliant public smile. She waited until he was finished. When he looked up, his face immediately hardened. She place

at her, a strange, flickering light in his dark eyes. It might have been regret, or maybe confusion. But whatever it was, it was seven years too