“Prisci, I’ll take everything from you-your family’s love, your husband’s loyalty… And you? You’ll end up with nothing,” Larissa Wilburn, Prisci Wilburn’s sister, dered confidently.


    And she did it.


    Prisci became the sister her twin brother ude Wilburn resented, and the wife Wesley Carlton despised.


    On the night of Larissa’s birthday, Prisci miscarried. Nobody noticed or simply cared.


    Prisci stared nkly at the harsh white light above her head and the IV bag dripping clear fluid.


    The ward door creaked open, and a slightly tired male voice broke the silence. “Honey, what happened?”


    An hour ago, she was wheeled out of the OR. Under the nurse’s pitying gaze, she borrowed a phone to text Wesley, asking him toe and cover her medical bills when avable.


    Finally, he arrived-immacte in a crisp white shirt, his handsome features marred only by faint traces of exhaustion.


    She turned her face away, the corners of her eyes glistening with unshed tears.


    “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked as he sat down by her bedside, his expression as distant as ever.


    He rushed over as soon as he saw her text, clueless to the brutal suffering she had endured.


    All of a sudden, a sharp ache twisted in her chest. If she hadn’t seen how gently he treated someone else, if she hadn’t almost died on that rainy night, she might’ve believed he was born this cold.


    The smell of alcohol on him turned her stomach.


    “My phone broke. Could you please cover my medical bills?” she rasped, her voice raw from exhaustion.


    She nned to tell him the rest after the pain eased a bit.


    Wesley caught the faint thread of aversion in her tone.


    He arched an eyebrow, slightly displeased. “Today is Larissa’s birthday. Where were you?”


    Prisci’s gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. Of course, she knew it was Larissa’s birthday. She even knew they had thrown Larissa avish celebration.


    Her family and husband spent almost the entire evening celebrating for Larissa.


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    11:49


    So absorbed that Prisci couldn’t even reach them when she was in excruciating pain.


    “I had to deal with something,” she said, her tone t.


    Wesley knitted his brows, his tone irritated, “Seriously? Today of all days? What could possibly be more important?”


    His sharp words cut deeper than the pain in her body.


    He knew nothing.


    He didn’t know she had been robbed, let alone that she had lost their baby.


    Her anger red as she snapped, “Wesley, are you implying I got myself hospitalized on purpose?”


    The silence that followed stretched endlessly, thick and suffocating.


    Just one look into Wesley’s deep, inscrutable eyes, she read the unspoken confirmation.


    Her heart sank to the bottom as she curved her lips self-mockingly.


    Three years of marriage, and this was how he saw her.


    Sensing the argument brewing, Wesley stood up. “I’ll go pay the bills. Get some rest. Dr. Thompson is on her way here.”


    Sarah Thompson was an obstetrician. Since bing pregnant, Prisci had been under her care.


    “Wesley, do you know…” Prisci suddenly had the urge to tell him about the miscarriage.


    “Prisci!” Just then, a delicate, sweet voice rang out together with the door opening, cutting her off.


    Larissa stood there in a pink gown, hair swept into an elegant chignon, a diamond crown glimmering under the light. She looked incredibly radiant, gentle, and adorable.


    “Prisci, are you OK?” she said while walking over to the bed.


    Prisci swallowed back her words. The sight of Larissa yanked her back into that freezing, rain-soaked night-count- less unanswered calls, the slow creep of death, and the utter despair.


    A deep hatred immediately washed over her.


    “Yeah,” she replied, her voice icy.


    Larissa’s eyes reddened with guilt. “I’m sorry, Prisci. I shouldn’t have asked Wes toe to the party.”


    Prisci closed her eyes. Her body hurt, but it was nothingpared to the exhaustion gnawing at her soul.