Washed 99 Bedsheets For My Husband and His Lovers

For ten years of marriage, Liam slept with others in our home 99 times.

And each time, he made me wash the bedsheets after their intimate encounters.

I endured silently, watching him cycle through one mistress after another.

Until the fifth month of my pregnancy, when his 100th bedmate tricked me into going to a bar and had people torture me for a day and a night.

My lower body was bleeding profusely, and I felt worse than death.

For the sake of the child in my womb, I knelt on the ground begging him to take me to the hospital.

He sneered and said:

"Seraphina, stop pretending."

"Even if you died, I wouldn't spare you a glance."

With that, he continued his passionate encounter with his new flame on the bar couch, in full view of everyone.

By the time I was taken to the hospital, the child in my womb had already stopped breathing.

Due to the inhuman torture, I also suffered a uterine prolapse, forever losing the right to have children.

When I woke up, I desperately dialed the phone:

"Cadence, send me the company's financial statements. I'll be back in three days."