My mother sneered, “Scrub harder, parasite,” forcing my heavily pregnant wife to wash her feet while a doctor held a syringe. Instead of fighting my filming brother, I quietly carried my wife out of the mansion. They laughed and called me a coward, completely unaware that in just 15 hours…

the open terrace doors.

I wore a tailored black suit. Emily wore a striking crimson maternity gown that she had bought for our anniversary. She looked like a queen stepping onto a battlefield.

We walked through the foyer—the same floor where she had been tortured just twelve hours prior—and pushed open the heavy oak doors to the grand dining room.

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