The Wife He Buried Alive
“Once signed, the exclusive cooperation agreement cannot be modified. Please confirm.”
Donna tapped ‘Confirm.’ Every stifled gasp in the room tightened her grip on the pregnancy test, turning her knuckles white.
Today marked the anniversary of Terry’s death after the kidnapping. She had been on her way to Roger’s private morgue to give him the good news—she was pregnant again.
She never imagined walking into this.
Roger lounged against the headboard, a string of blood-red prayer beads lying against his taut neck. His long fingers gripped the slender waist of the woman straddling him, letting her nuzzle open his shirt and press kisses to his chest.
“Nancy, the ‘nutritional shots’ I give her every night are specially formulated contraceptives, developed by experts. She will never get pregnant with my child again.”
Roger’s low voice drifted out, casual and unconcerned. Each word was a dagger to Donna’s heart.
Five years. A full five years.
She had always believed her own poor health was to blame for not conceiving again.
Because she trusted him—the forensic pathologist—her entire arm and even her back were covered with dark, bruised needle marks.
But those weren’t nutritional shots. They were the special drugs he had meticulously prepared for her.
Donna bit her lower lip until she tasted blood, rooted to the spot, refusing to leave.
“I’ll kill every child she bears, just like I personally killed Donna’s child six months ago.”
“If her father hadn’t saved me back then, she wouldn’t hold that debt over my head to force this marriage. Then *you* would be my rightful wife today—the lady of Roger’s Group.”
“But it’s fine. As long as you carry my child, I’ll make him the happiest in the world. And you, just as I promised when we were kids, will become the happiest woman.”
Their panting grew louder. Donna wanted to leave, but her body felt like lead. The bead engraved with “Donna”—her supposed talisman—swung mockingly, turning her stomach.
Six months ago, distracted for half a second—thinking about buying Roger a watch—she had let Terry be snatched by a criminal.
The kidnapper demanded a billion. Roger mobilized every last bit of liquid capital from Roger’s Group and paid it, down to the last cent.
The kidnapper demanded he kneel all night. Roger, a man who’d never bowed to anyone, knelt.
But in the end, what was delivered back was only Roger—unconscious, one leg brutally broken—and Terry, smothered to death by someone’s hand.
Yet Roger had used every means at his disposal and still couldn’t uncover who was behind it.
She thought she’d never learn the truth in this lifetime. She never imagined hearing the man himself tear it open today.
So Terry’s death wasn’t an accident. Her years of infertility weren’t an accident either.
It was her most beloved, most trusted husband, clearing obstacles for his true love.
In Roger’s eyes, she and their child were nothing but stumbling blocks keeping him and Nancy apart.
The commotion in the room grew more intense, even knocking over the vigil light beside the plaque.
After Terry’s death, Roger—the lifelong skeptic—had forged his own strange religion of guilt: a shrine, a perpetual flame, rituals of abstinence. All for Terry.
Donna had thought it was his heartache over their child’s wrongful death.
Now she saw it was only his own guilty conscience.
“You like the shrine? I’ll build you a cathedral of candles.”
Roger’s voice was full of tender affection as he kissed the top of Nancy’s head.
Nancy let out a soft, light laugh. Her hand snaked down and grasped him.
“Roger, shouldn’t you go back? It’s so late. Sister Donna must be waiting anxiously at home.”
The words were for Roger, but her eyes never left Donna’s—unblinking, scornful, dripping with provocation.
Roger’s entire focus was on Nancy. Her feigned resistance only stirred him more. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Be good, one more time, hmm? Even if she died right now, I wouldn’t go back, okay?”
Donna’s heart was already numb, but the words still found their mark.
Slowly, she pushed herself up to leave.
Then a sharp smoke alarm blared through the morgue. Donna turned to see flames suddenly erupting.
Terry!
Her Terry was still in there!
Donna had just rushed in when she saw Roger, without hesitation, shove Nancy toward the door.
“Get out! Don’t let anyone see you!”
Nancy met Donna’s terrified gaze and curved her lips into a smile. With a sweep of her arm, she slammed the door shut, sealing Donna’s only exit.
In the sealed, burning room, Donna felt the searing heat on her skin. Blood streamed down, pooling on the floor.
She collapsed, clutching the small, cold body of her son to her chest with her last strength.
*BANG—*
Firefighters broke down the door.
The world spun. The last thing Donna saw was Roger’s retreating back as he carried Nancy away.
Her husband never looked back. Not once.
"You were never this aggressive before, Donna. Now you're pushing people, hitting them. Seems I've been spoiling you too much."
He yanked her to her feet, his tone severe. "You've been pregnant before. You know what a pregnant woman should eat. This is your punishment—make a nutritious meal for Nancy."
A searing pain shot through Donna, as if her skin were being stripped from her back. She stared at him in disbelief. "Roger, I’m your wife!"
Tears streamed down her face.
Perhaps it was the raw anguish in her voice, or the sheer wretchedness of her appearance, but a flicker of hesitation crossed Roger’s eyes. Then his gaze landed on the red handprint on Nancy’s cheek, and the words died in his throat.
"Donna, you know how I am. It’s not personal—it’s about what you did. Whoever makes a mistake faces the consequences."
Donna trembled violently, barely able to stay upright.
*It’s not personal? And what about Terry? When you strangled Terry with your own hands, why didn’t you think about your own flesh and blood!*
Two servants seized Donna, whose strength had completely drained, and hauled her toward the kitchen. They forced a hot pan into her hands.
The moment she gripped it, the handle snapped. Boiling oil splashed directly toward her abdomen.
She had no time to dodge. She could only shield her belly with her hands, taking the scalding oil on their backs.
The oil seared her skin, raising angry, blood-filled blisters. Donna’s scream of pain went ignored.
Warm laughter and cheerful chatter seeped through the kitchen door crack. She could even see Roger feeding Nancy spoonfuls of truffle soup.
Nancy sat at the center, smiling sweetly at her, mouthing a silent word:
*"Serves you right."*
She was getting revenge for that slap.
Sweat blurred Donna’s vision. *I can’t collapse. I have to hold on until the day I leave. Only then can I protect the child in my womb.*
The meal was served. Nancy took one bite and immediately spat it out, her voice trembling with accusation. "I know Sister-in-law doesn't like me, but how could you harm the baby? I'm allergic to eggs."
But the kitchen had contained only eggs.
Clutching her stomach, tears welling in her eyes, Nancy whimpered, "Roger, my stomach hurts so much..."
Roger shot to his feet, scooped Nancy into his arms, and rushed for the door. "Get the hospital director to prepare a room—now!"
Donna opened her mouth to explain, but Christine grabbed her blistered hand and flung her to the floor.
"Donna! Was the lesson earlier not enough? What on earth are you trying to do!"
As the first slap landed, the priest’s chant for the dead began to echo in Donna’s ears.
Her cheeks swelled from the blows; the hard beads of Christine’s bracelet cut into her skin with each slap. The metallic taste of blood flooded her senses.
Clutching her abdomen, staking her last shred of hope, Donna choked out, "Roger…"
Roger’s steps faltered. He didn’t turn back. His voice was ice.
"Donna, this time, you’ve gone too far."
The final note of the death chant faded. The last slap fell with brutal force.
