Chapter 3

That night, I was admitted to the hospital for a thorough examination. When Clara returned with my test results, she pulled me into an excited embrace.

"Elena, you're going to be a mom!"

Lying weak against the hospital pillows, the dullness in my eyes finally gave way to a spark of life. I rested a hand over my stomach, completely overwhelmed by disbelief. "I'm actually having a baby?"

The shock was immediate and terrifying. "What if Marcus doesn't want it?" I whispered. "Should I even tell him?"

Clara took my hand, offering a steadying squeeze. "Whether he wants it or not, this baby is yours. Even without him, you are going to be a wonderful mother. Congratulations, Elena."

As she looked down, a brief flicker of sadness crossed her face. Remembering her own struggles with infertility, I gripped her hand tighter.

"Clara," I said earnestly, "when this baby is born, you are going to be their godmother."

A bright smile broke through her sorrow, and she hugged me fiercely. "Thank you, Elena."

Because my pregnancy was high-risk, the doctors kept me for a few days of observation. Clara drove me home the afternoon I was finally discharged.

That evening, I poured my energy into cooking all of my husband's favorite meals. I planned to share the good news the moment he walked through the door, but midnight came and went.

When Marcus finally arrived, he reeked of alcohol. A heavy scent of women's perfume clung to his jacket—a smell that, perhaps due to the pregnancy, instantly turned my stomach. I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

When I emerged, emotionally exhausted, I tried to confront him. He only glared at me, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

"You don't deserve to even say her name," he spat. "She's kind enough to cry over a dead flower. But you? You got someone killed who truly cared about you. I will never forgive you."

Unable to stand my presence for another second, he turned toward the door.

Thinking of the child growing inside me, I swallowed my pride and pleaded. "Marcus, wait. I'm pregnant. Please don't leave me here alone."

He paused halfway across the room. Turning back, he looked at me with profound disgust, entirely convinced it was just another manipulation.

"First you pretend to be sick, and now you're using a fake pregnancy as an excuse? You really will do anything to force me to stay." He shook his head bitterly. "I should have seen who you truly were a long time ago."

I desperately insisted I was telling the truth, but it only fueled his impatience. He grabbed our framed wedding photo from the table and hurled it onto the floor, the glass shattering across the hardwood.

"I regret ever marrying someone like you," he said coldly. "Don't bother me again."

Watching him walk out the door left my heart in shreds. I wiped my tears, gently touching my stomach in the quiet, empty house. "It's okay, baby," I whispered. "Mommy won't give up on you."

Marcus never came home after that night. For the sake of my child, I forced myself to find the strength to keep going. I even started buying little items to decorate the nursery.

Everything changed the evening Clara accompanied me to a prenatal checkup. It was already dark on our walk back, and we soon realized we were being followed. Clara bravely tried to buy me time to escape, but the attacker struck her with a baseball bat, knocking her unconscious.

Cornered in a dead-end alley, I instinctively pulled out my phone and dialed my husband's number.

"Marcus, please!" I sobbed into the receiver. "Someone is chasing us! Clara's been knocked out. You have to come help us!"

But Marcus thought it was just another ploy. He yelled into the phone, his voice dripping with irritation. "Enough of your ridiculous games! Vanessa's cat is missing near her apartment building, and God knows if it's hurt. I don't have time for your little dramas right now."

The line went dead. A second later, something heavy slammed into the back of my head, and the world faded to black.

I regained consciousness inside an abandoned, half-constructed skyscraper. Clara lay motionless in a corner, blood matting her hair. Relying on sheer journalistic instinct, I quietly slipped off my wristwatch camera and tossed it into a dark corner. The killer didn't notice.

He dragged me to a heavy table and tied me down. The torture was methodical. He deliberately crushed my bones, then poured acid down my throat. Finally, he sealed my lips shut with superglue.

He stabbed me twenty-eight times.

I could feel the blood pooling in my abdomen, sensing the fragile life of my baby slipping away. Tears of absolute despair rolled down my face. I couldn't scream for help. I couldn't even scream in pain. I was simply a lamb on a slaughterhouse floor.

Clara woke up halfway through the ordeal and witnessed the butchery. The sight broke her mind. In my final moments, I watched her break free and lunge at the killer in a desperate bid for revenge, only to be struck down and killed by his hand.

Just before I died, the killer used a steel rod to gouge out my eyes. A guitar string was pulled taut around my neck, and I finally bled out into the darkness.

After death, my spirit untethered itself and drifted straight to my husband.

He and his brother had spent the entire night with Vanessa, searching the streets for her missing cat.