Ever since my widowed sister-in-law Brooklyn moved in, everything I owned had slowly become hers. My barely-worn designer coat, the fabric coupons I'd saved for months—Justin handed them all over in the name of "family support."
Now he was desperate to prove he wasn't petty about some brown sugar. He had his subordinates haul in every gift from New York.
Imported toys. A set of luxurious cashmere coats.
The crowd gasped.
"Look at that cashmere! You can tell it's expensive just by looking."
The whispers shifted. "So she really is the Director's wife..."
Mocking gazes turned toward Brooklyn. She shot me a look of pure venom, then stormed off.
I ignored her. I just stared at that familiar coat—and that night, the nightmares returned.
In my previous life, I'd refused to give up the master bedroom after Brooklyn moved in. Justin and I fought viciously.
He called me a jealous shrew and locked me out. I spent the night shivering in below-freezing temperatures.
The brown sugar my aunt and uncle mailed? He gave that to Brooklyn too.
Even my favorite coat—the one sitting in the living room now—ended up hers. A few pitiful lies from her lips, and Justin handed it over.
Fighting became our daily routine. At first he tried coaxing me into submission. Eventually, his patience ran out.
The moment that truly broke me happened at the factory. I'd gone to bring him lunch.
When the massive chandelier crashed down, Justin didn't reach for me. Without hesitation, he threw himself over Brooklyn.
After I was discharged, I demanded a divorce. He warned me not to regret it.
He was right. A divorced woman was a pariah.
The Cultural Troupe fired me.
Then my son was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I swallowed my pride and begged Justin to use his money and connections to save our child.
He accused me of using my dying son to manipulate him.
When the hospital evicted us for non-payment, my son whispered that he wanted to see his daddy one last time.
Fighting back tears, I carried him to the Farley home. What we found: Justin, Brooklyn, and her son, laughing together like a perfect family.
My son stopped breathing before we left the gate.
I drank the rat poison I'd bought weeks earlier, tears streaming as I chased my son into the dark.
My last thought: If there's a next life, I'll never crave a man's love again. I only ask that my son lives.
I woke gasping, my pillow soaked with cold tears.