Reborn Bride, No Longer Your Victim

Hanso

st its cage. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. A chance to rewind the tape, to e

d get their lives back. Mom. Dad. The th

as a nursery-and found a hiding place. I carefully slid the precious ticket inside the lining of my

face and Kisha' s triumphant, pregnant belly burned behind my eyelids. I saw them together in

The layout was the same, a phantom limb of my old life, but every detail was wrong. In the kitchen,

r since I told him I often woke up thirsty. A small, thoughtless gesture of love tha

't s

on stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim

sucking the air out of the room. He didn't look at me. It was as if

focating. I had to say something. I

y," I said, my voi

a has trouble sleeping without warm mi

ng milk for himself. He was tending to his pregnant

much? Don't you remember us?-died in my throat

ve, to retreat

dre

ned back, a sliver of fooli

and, which was resting on the counter. "The hous

ign, a small, intricate 'A' and 'C' intertwined. He had given it to me the day we

around it. "Why?" I asked, th

o the house," he said simply, as if discussing the

to give her m

ranger, was systematically dismantling every piece of the life we had built,

off the ring. The metal was cold ag

fingers brushing mine,

id, his voice devo

back to the guest room and closed the door, leaning ag

oved

d unchangeable as my parents' deaths. He loved her enough to eras

self. My hand went to my stomach, flat and empty. A

positive. I was carrying Clayton' s child. I had been planning to tell him that night

nother woman. And in my grief and anger, I

arly wanted, a child he cherished. And mine? Our baby was

t sleep

re hollow, rimmed with red. Her face was pale and drawn. I splashed cold

e table where Clayton and I were supposed to have our first breakfast as husband and wife.

as a punch

le bright and sickeningly sweet. "Come, join u

ow did she

gh in trying to make you feel welcome," he said, his voice laced with an

arched for information on her

e an unwanted guest at my own funeral. Maria, the maid

rk, leaning against him affectionately. "Clay,

is voice softening into a tone of pure adoration I had

nestling closer to him. "I don'

the casual, effortless intimacy that hurt the most. The quiet moments, t

e, cruel spectacle designed to show me exactly what I had lost. And

scraping sound loud in the

get out

s voice was sharp,

t turn

cemetery," he said, his tone flat and busine

as giving me this, a chance to see them. But it wasn't an act of kind

the address to my

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