The Day I Proposed and Walked Away

...

Milton was right about one thing. I was indeed pregnant.

It happened after a fight with Cheryl. He was drunk, mistaking me for Cheryl, and we had a crazy night.

Weeks later, I found out about my pregnancy.

He knew it, too.

In my last life, I leveraged that debt of saving his life to force a proposal.

We got married, but Cheryl's suicide plunged him into a vengeful spiral. He stuffed me with food and supplements until my belly swelled unnaturally.

When labor came, he refused to take me to a hospital.

The baby was too big. I was torn apart, screaming. My vision went red with pain. I tried to push but could not.

Blood pooled beneath me, and my child suffocated. I bled out, dying in torment.

Back home from the hospital, I rested a hand on my still-flat stomach, feeling the faint flutter of life. It was time to end this cycle.

I crashed hard, sleeping four hours straight. When I woke up, a text from Milton was waiting.

[My mom is sick. Come to the house.]

Milton was a moron, but his mom, Margaret Woodard, had always treated me like her own.

Our parents were friends. Mine died young, and his parents took me in.

Their care for me was real.

But that text? It wasn't Milton's style. He never used punctuation.

This had to be Cheryl, meddling with his phone and setting a trap, but I went anyway.

At the Woodard Mansion, the door swung open, and a bucket of ice-cold water doused me from head to toe.

The chill pierced my bones, a sharp cramp seizing my abdomen.

Laughter erupted from inside.

Blinking water from my eyes, I saw a crowd of young men and women, their gazes mocking.

In the center stood Cheryl, smug as ever. "Make her kneel."

A heavy boot slammed into my back, forcing me to the floor.

Cheryl sneered, clutching a bottle of liquor. "You know Milton can't stand you, you pathetic leech. Sneaking a baby to trap him? Today, you'll regret ever carrying his kid."

She thrust the bottle at me, expecting fear, but I didn't even bat an eyelid.

When she poured the fiery whiskey down my throat, I didn't struggle.

I didn't want Milton or his child.

I drained the bottle, wiped my mouth, and looked at her. "Got more?"

Cheryl spat, "You're insane."

She grabbed a glowing-hot curling iron, its tip red with heat, and lunged toward my eyes.

A scream cut through. "Blood. She is bleeding everywhere."

Agony ripped through my core, my face paling to ash.

Cheryl froze, then smirked, her cruelty reignited. Dropping the iron, she stomped hard on my belly before anyone could react.

Blood gushed, and I blacked out without a scream.