Chapter 3

"You look tired, sweetheart," Marcus said as he entered our bedroom, his voice dripping with fake concern. "Let me get you some warm milk."

I sat on the edge of our bed, still reeling from the morning's procedure. The physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional devastation, but I forced myself to play the grieving wife.

"I don't need anything," I whispered, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

"Nonsense," Marcus insisted, already heading toward the kitchen. "You need your strength. The baby needs it too."

The baby he thought was still alive. The baby that was now gone forever.

He returned with a glass of warm milk, the same concerned smile plastered on his face. But I caught the subtle way his fingers lingered on the rim of the glass, the almost imperceptible satisfaction in his eyes.

"Drink up," he said softly, sitting beside me. "It'll help you sleep."

I took the glass with trembling hands, noting the slight chalky residue at the bottom. The same drug they'd planned to use at the party, no doubt.

"Marcus," I said, looking up at him with manufactured vulnerability. "Do you love me?"

His mask slipped for just a moment—a flash of cold amusement in his eyes before the caring husband returned.

"Of course I do," he lied smoothly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "You and our baby mean everything to me."

I drank the milk in one go, letting some spill down my chin to sell the performance. Within minutes, my limbs grew heavy, my vision blurred.

"That's it, rest now," Marcus murmured as I collapsed back onto the pillows. "Sweet dreams, darling."

I forced my breathing to deepen, my body to go limp, while keeping my mind sharp and focused. Through half-closed eyes, I watched Marcus's expression change completely.

The loving husband vanished, replaced by a cold stranger who looked at my unconscious form with disgust.

He pulled out his phone and typed rapidly. "Package is ready for delivery," he texted someone.

Twenty minutes later, I heard multiple sets of footsteps on our stairs. Ryan's voice carried clearly as they entered our bedroom.

"Damn, she's out cold," Ryan said with satisfaction. "That new formula really works."

"She won't remember anything," Marcus replied casually. "Just like the last five times."

Five times. My stomach churned with the realization of what they'd been doing to me while I was drugged and helpless.

"The bidding is already at thirty thousand for tonight," Ethan announced. "Johnson really wants his turn with the pregnant Ice Queen."

They moved around me like I was an object, arranging my unconscious body for their sick auction. I felt hands touching me, positioning me, violating me while I lay helpless.

But I wasn't helpless. Not anymore.

I had hidden a recording device in the lamp beside our bed yesterday, anticipating this exact scenario. Every word, every admission of their crimes was being captured.

When they finally left hours later, satisfied with their latest violation, I waited another thirty minutes before allowing myself to move.

My body ached from their abuse, but my mind was crystal clear with purpose. I retrieved the recording device and uploaded everything to a secure cloud account.

Then I found Marcus's phone on his nightstand.

His password was pathetically simple—Sophie's birthday. I navigated to a hidden app I'd seen him use, accessing a group chat called "Victoria's Auction."

The messages made my blood run cold:

Ryan: "Tonight's winner gets the pregnant special. She's extra responsive when she's drugged."

Ethan: "Can't wait for the welcome party. We should livestream it."

Marcus: "Better idea. Let's record everything. Sophie wants to see her precious mentor completely destroyed."

The final message was from yesterday:

Sophie: "The golden prize awaits! Can't wait to see my dear sister-in-law at the party! ?"

Attached was a photo of my ultrasound with the words "GOLDEN JACKPOT" written across it in red marker.

I screenshotted everything, backing up months of evidence to multiple secure locations. Bank transfers, drugging schedules, victim photos, betting records—it was all there.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sophie: "Welcome party tomorrow night! Can't wait to catch up and celebrate your beautiful pregnancy! ?"

The hypocrisy was nauseating, but it also meant I had less than twenty-four hours to prepare.

I deleted my screenshots from Marcus's phone and returned it to his nightstand. Then I went to our bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me was no longer the naive wife who had believed in fairytales. She was someone harder, colder, infinitely more dangerous.

Tomorrow night, at Sophie's welcome party, they expected to see a drugged, helpless victim ready for their final game.

Instead, they would meet their executioner.