Hot blood gushed beneath me, spreading across the floor.
They didn’t stop until my body convulsed, and I collapsed, trembling in agony.
Thinking I had passed out, one of the men sneered.
“Lucky for us, President Jimenez didn’t want any accidents—and to make sure Ms. Ruiz feels completely at ease—he let us in earlier and hid us in the living room. Otherwise, this woman might have ruined our payday.”
It was the voice of the property manager.
Just before darkness swallowed me whole, a bitter laugh rose in my chest.
Anthony... all to pave the way for your beloved and her child, you really went to great lengths.
...
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in my bed. The family’s private doctor gave me a pitying look before leaving with a sigh.
Anthony sat by my side, his eyes red as if from crying.
“Diana, I’m sorry. I should’ve checked the locks before I left... That’s how those bastards got in. The police said it might be hard to find them since they were masked, but no matter how hard it is, I’ll hunt them down and make them pay for what they did to you.”
Then his voice softened, almost tender.
“The doctor says your uterus was severely damaged from the blows... you won’t be able to have children again. But don’t worry—even if you can’t bear children, I’ll never despise you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”
But I knew—he hadn’t called the police. He had already helped those men leave Amsterdam.
I stared at him blankly, not bothering to expose his lies.
His eyes flicked to his watch, and a trace of impatience crossed his face.
“Diana, there’s an important client I have to meet tonight...”
“I’m fine,” I said flatly. “Go.”
“I knew my wife was the most understanding. Rest well. I’ll come back early to keep you company.”
He pressed a perfunctory kiss on my forehead and left in a rush without looking back.
Ten seconds later, I heard the sound of a door closing upstairs, followed by the laughter of a woman and a child.
Dragging my aching body into the living room, I noticed a phone lying on the sofa—an unfamiliar one. In his hurry to meet his lover, Anthony had forgotten to take it.
In all our years of marriage, I had never known he had another phone.
The passcode was Vanessa’s birthday.
I remembered it clearly—when I had sued her, I’d memorized her personal information.
The Instagram account on this phone had only one contact: Vanessa.