A REVENGE AS CRUEL AS HIS LOVE
Jennifer POV
Prologue
The first time Stanley hit me, he apologized with tears in his cornflower-blue eyes and a diamond bracelet he got from Tiffany’s. The second time, he blamed the stress of the quarterly earnings report. By the fifth time, he didn’t bother with an excuse. He simply warned me not to cry and ruin my makeup before the gala. The bruises since then have been more than physical.
I was the pretty, well-bred accessory for Stanley Morgan, CEO of Morgan Holdings. The perfect wife to showcase at galas, the serene portrait of success to hang on his arm. In return, I got a life of gilded misery. My opinions were "naive." My friends were "distractions." My art, once the vibrant core of my being, was a "messy hobby." He controlled the money, the social calendar, the very air I breathed, always with a chilling, condescending smile.
At thirty, Stanley Morgan was the undisputed king of a real estate empire built on ruthlessness and a generational fortune from his parents that he had only expanded. He was handsome, tall, and his eyes were perfectly sized. Being the only son of his parents had made him grow up believing that everything was to be in his favor, just as he desired.
I had once found his handsome, muscular body captivating. Who wouldn't accept the proposal of such an affluent, wealthy man who extended his undying love to me in the midst of challenges that I couldn't endure alone?
I was only twenty-five years old when I first met Stanley. I had just graduated from my Bachelor of Science program and was looking forward to securing a job for myself. That was the only option left for me since my mother barely provided three square meals for my other siblings.
Three months into working at the hotel, I met Stanley, who came to the lodge along with his business associate. He has promised me the luxury life I’d always dreamed of, and I believed and trusted him. I had to prioritize all of my dreams in favor of Stanley's.
***********************
I found out a month ago. The two pink lines on the test tube were a rebellion. They represented a life he hadn't sanctioned, a piece of me that was purely, beautifully mine. Maybe this would change him. Maybe the news of a child would soften the hard, cruel edges of the man I’d married.
I chose a night he had a "win" to break the news. The Atherton account was sealed with a handshake that probably crushed bones. He was pouring a glass of forty-year-old Scotch and relaxing his back on the armchair like a king surveying his domain through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Stanley," I began, my voice softer than I intended. "We need to talk."
He didn't turn. Then he replied "If it's about the bill, Jennifer, we've discussed your spending.”
"It's not that." I took a steadying breath, my hand drifting unconsciously to my still-flat stomach. "I'm pregnant."
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout. He slowly turned, the crystal tumbler catching the light. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, scanned me, not with joy, but with cold calculation.
"Pregnant," he repeated, the word sounding like a foreign, distasteful thing in his mouth. "How inconvenient."
My heart skipped, and I replied, "Inconvenient? Stanley, it's our child."
"Our child?" He took a step forward, and the familiar dread coiled in my gut. "There is no 'our' in this, Jennifer. There is me, and there is you. And this… this is a complication. My timeline for the European expansion is this year. I cannot have you swollen and emotional, unable to host, becoming a… distraction."
Tears pricked my eyes, but I willed them away. Crying was a victory for him. "It's not a distraction. It's a baby. Your heir.”
He slammed the tumbler down on the marble floor; the sound echoed like a gunshot. "I decide what my legacy is! Not you! Not some… accidental pregnancy." He was in front of me now, his face a mask of controlled fury. "You will get rid of it. We’ll schedule the procedure discreetly in Switzerland."
"No." The word was a whisper, but it was the most powerful thing I’d ever said to him.
His eyes widened in genuine shock. I had never directly refused him before. His hand shot out and gripped my upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh. "What did you say to me?"
"I said no," I repeated, my voice gaining strength. "I'm keeping my baby."
"Your baby?" he asked in an uncomfortable manner. "You have nothing that is yours! This apartment, the clothes on your back, the food you eat; it's all mine! You are mine!"
He shoved me, and I stumbled back, my hip connecting sharply with the edge of the dining table. A gasp of pain escaped me.
"Please, Stanley," I pleaded, my hand making a covering over my stomach, a useless shield.
"Don't you 'please' me," he spat, advancing again. "You will do as you're told. You will get back in line."
He grabbed me again, and I twisted away, a surge of adrenaline giving me immediate speed. It was the wrong move. His face transformed into something truly monstrous. He didn't just slap me this time. He squeezed his fist into a rounded shape, and with a brutal, professional punch, he drove it into my side.
The air left my lungs in a rush. I crumpled to the cold, hard floor, curling up in pain, which was lower and deeper. A hot, sickening cramp made its way into my abdomen.
"Get up," he commanded, his voice cold again. "Stop being dramatic."
But I couldn't. The world was tilting, narrowing to a point of excruciating agony in my core. A wet warmth spread between my legs. I looked down, and the world stopped.
The back of my white trousers was stained a deep, terrible red color.
"No," I whispered the word like a prayer and a curse. "No, no, no."
Stanley followed my gaze. For a single, horrifying second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, not remorse, but the startled calculation of a man assessing damages. Then it was gone, replaced by icy practicality.
"See what you made me do?" he said, his voice flat. "Clean yourself up. I'll call Dr. Evans. He’s discreet."
