Someone's temper snapped. A thermos container flew through the air and cracked against my chest, splattering hot congee across my body.
Scalding. A blister rose instantly on my exposed skin.
Cyril didn't spare me a single glance.
He stayed at Ruth's side, quietly kicking small stones out of her path, devoting himself entirely to clearing every obstacle from her way.
Watching this, my chest felt crushed beneath something waterlogged and heavy—suffocating, as if I might never draw another full breath.
By the time I gritted my teeth and made it to the standard room, my legs had turned to jelly.
I collapsed onto the hospital bed, too weak to do anything but curl around my daughter.
My little one, you don't have a father anymore.
But that's okay. After tonight, we'll start over. Just the two of us.
That night, Nora burst into wails, her tiny body burning up.
I dragged myself upright and carried her to the door—
Only to be blocked by the guards.
"Miss Pruitt, apologies. Without orders from Mr. Sanchez or Miss Sanchez, you're not permitted to leave this room."
I clutched my daughter tighter against my chest, my voice rising to a desperate shout. "Move! My daughter has a high fever—she needs medical attention now!"
The guard's expression didn't flicker.
"Apologies. Until you've repaid the eight hundred eighty thousand dollars in bride price, you're not taking a single step outside. If you run, Mr. Sanchez will hold us accountable for that debt. Please don't make this difficult."
Ice spread through my veins. Something in my mind detonated.
Eight hundred eighty thousand in bride price.
Everyone said I'd struck gold marrying Cyril Sanchez—a sparrow landing on a phoenix branch, destined for a lifetime of luxury as a wealthy man's wife.
But no one knew the truth.
Because of one offhand remark from Ruth: "If she really loved you, she wouldn't spend a single cent of your money. Otherwise, what makes her different from all those gold-diggers after the Sanchez fortune?"
From our wedding day until now, every expense of mine fell outside the household budget.
The haute couture gowns for galas. The glittering jewelry. Even the luxury car that drove us to events together—
Ruth would extend her palm the moment the party ended, demanding I pay for the ride.
Three short years as Mrs. Sanchez.