My Son's Death, His Cruel Betrayal
Chapter 3
Krystal POV:
I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Maybe he would leave. Maybe he would just disappear, like I wanted to. His presence felt like a suffocating blanket, heavy and unwelcome.
He sighed, a frustrated, tired sound. "Krystal," he said, his voice softer now, a hint of weariness. "Don't pretend. I know you're awake."
He reached out, his hand shaking my shoulder gently. "What were you dreaming about?" he asked, his voice almost tender. "You were calling out a name. Leo."
The sound of our son's name, spoken by him, felt like a punch to my gut. It was a physical pain, sharp and immediate. I opened my eyes slowly, letting a single tear trace a path down my temple.
He saw it. His face immediately crumpled, his carefully constructed composure cracking. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.
"Oh, Krystal," he murmured, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine grief. "Our Leo. I miss him too. So much."
He held me for a long moment, then pulled back, his eyes red-rimmed. "We can have another child, Krystal," he said, his voice full of a desperate hope. "We can, please. Don't give up on us."
My heart, already a stone, turned to ice. Another child? He actually thought another child could replace Leo? Could erase the searing pain, the gaping hole in my soul? He didn' t understand. He never understood. He couldn't even see the horror of his own words. I felt nothing but a chilling emptiness. No tears came, even though my heart felt like it was being ripped apart.
"Why are you here, Jonathan?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I pulled away from his embrace, the contact feeling wrong, alien.
He hesitated, a strange look flickering across his face. He avoided my gaze. "Hailey… she's feeling unwell," he mumbled, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. "Her stomach is upset. She asked if you could… make her some of your special soup."
My body went rigid. My elbow throbbed, a fresh wave of pain coursing through me. I was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from a brutal assault instigated by his own mother, and he was asking me to make soup for Hailey? The woman whose negligence led to our son's death? The woman he always prioritized over me?
He saw my frozen expression, saw my bandaged arm. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of belated realization. "No, no, of course not, Krystal," he quickly corrected, his voice a little too loud. "I didn't mean… I mean, could you just write down the recipe for me? I can make it."
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I remembered all the times I' d stayed up late, carefully simmering that soup for him, for his high-stress job, knowing he suffered from stomach issues. I' d done it even when I was exhausted, even when I had my own stomach problems he never once noticed. He never offered to make it for me. Never.
"Sure," I said, my voice hollow. "Get me a pen and paper."
He quickly scrambled to find them, his relief palpable. As I scribbled down the ingredients, his eyes lingered on my hand, now steady and precise. He used to say my hands were made for delicate work, for healing. But he hadn't complimented them in years.
He took the paper from me, his fingers brushing mine. They lingered, as if expecting the warmth that was no longer there. His face was etched with a strange, aching sorrow. He remembered how I used to promise him forever, how my love for him was an unshakeable fortress. Now, that fortress was crumbling, and he was realizing it. He still clung to the deluded belief that I would never truly leave him, that a divorce was impossible.
"Jonathan," a hurried voice called from the doorway. "Hailey is asking for you again. She's really quite distressed."
He cursed under his breath, his eyes fixed on me. "I'll be right back, Krystal," he repeated, the same empty promise he' d given last night.
He turned and strode out, his footsteps heavy. I heard him quickly ascend the stairs to Hailey' s room.
I closed my eyes again, and drifted into a numb, hollow sleep.
I woke to a sudden, violent shove. I cried out, pain flaring in my elbow, as I tumbled from the bed, landing hard on the cold floor.
"You bitch!" Jonathan's voice was a guttural roar, filled with a terrifying rage I had never heard directed at me. It was cold, cutting, like a blade. "What did you put in that soup, Krystal? What poison did you give her?"
He stood over me, his hands shaking, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He grabbed the front of my hospital gown, yanking me up until my feet barely touched the floor.
"Did you try to kill her?" he snarled, his eyes wide and wild. "Did you? Just like you killed our son?"
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