My Child’s Death, His Total Ruin
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On our fifth wedding anniversary, I received a bouquet of red roses sent by my husband, Gabriel—even though he knew perfectly well I was severely allergic to roses.
One order number. Two bouquets. A single sentence from the delivery man—"Sorry, grabbed the wrong one"—and I plunged straight into an ice bath.
So tonight's "emergency meeting" was actually a rooftop rose dinner he'd arranged for another woman.
Five years ago, I was the pampered darling of the Rivers family. Over the course of our marriage, I'd given up thousand-dollar handbags, dressed myself in twenty-dollar clothes, and squeezed into a cramped apartment—all because he said he wanted a modest, frugal home.
Now even restaurant waiters couldn't recognize me, while that woman sat there wearing a diamond bracelet, cradling the roses that should have been mine, smirking right at me.
I ran my fingers over the stretch marks that still lingered on my belly—the belly that had carried our child.
Gabriel, if you dare betray me, then that CEO chair? You can kiss it goodbye.
One order number. Two bouquets. A single sentence from the delivery man—"Sorry, grabbed the wrong one"—and I plunged straight into an ice bath.
So tonight's "emergency meeting" was actually a rooftop rose dinner he'd arranged for another woman.
Five years ago, I was the pampered darling of the Rivers family. Over the course of our marriage, I'd given up thousand-dollar handbags, dressed myself in twenty-dollar clothes, and squeezed into a cramped apartment—all because he said he wanted a modest, frugal home.
Now even restaurant waiters couldn't recognize me, while that woman sat there wearing a diamond bracelet, cradling the roses that should have been mine, smirking right at me.
I ran my fingers over the stretch marks that still lingered on my belly—the belly that had carried our child.
Gabriel, if you dare betray me, then that CEO chair? You can kiss it goodbye.

















































