He opened his bag and pulled out a thick yellow envelope. My heart beat faster.
—I have evidence of what he does in the mansion when he’s alone. And you, my dear, will help me get every last cent from him. But before anything else… you need to see what’s in the photos.
He handed me the first photo. It was as if my world stopped. What I saw… wasn’t another woman.
Darker. More dangerous.
…In the photo, the person next to him is not a woman.
But a table full of documents, guns, and thick wads of money.
There’s another picture—him, talking to two men in black, seemingly handing over a small box. On the back, the date and time are clear. It turns out that every night, he doesn’t just do women’s things in the mansion.
Deeper.
More dangerous.
“He’s not just a crook,” the woman next to me said softly. “He has connections to the illegal arms trade. He uses the women as cover. So that no one suspects.”
My hand was shaking as I held the picture.
« Why… why are you helping me? » I asked.
He looked straight into my eyes. No anger. No pity either. But determination.
“Because I know what it feels like to be made into a toy. And I won’t let another woman’s life be ruined because of him.”
The two of us were silent as the sun slowly rose over the City Square.
“You have two choices,” he said. “Leave and start on your own—and hide for the rest of your life. Or stand up. Help me. Let’s give everything to the police. There’s protection arranged. I have a lawyer. He can’t touch you.”
I held my stomach.
It’s not just about me anymore.
It’s about the unborn child—who shouldn’t grow up in the shadow of a criminal.
“I will,” I replied weakly. “For my son.”
A week has passed.
A raid was conducted on the mansion. He was caught while making a transaction. The news came out on television—a well-known businessman, arrested for illegal arms trafficking and domestic abuse.
For the first time, I’m not hiding behind his name.
I now have a small apartment, thanks to a legal settlement and the help of a woman I once thought was my enemy. She herself stood as a witness against her husband.
And when I gave birth to my son three months later, there were two people waiting outside the delivery room.
A lawyer.
And a woman who was once called the “legal wife.”
We are not enemies.
Only two of us survived.
Sometimes, the door violently slammed shut in your face—
is not the end.
But since the liberation.
See more on the next page
Leave a Comment