Make Him Pay

Flames in the villa fiercely licked the silk curtains, orange-red tongues of fire leaping to the second floor. The scorching air was thick with choking smoke that tore through my lungs as I coughed desperately. I gripped the blazing-hot stair railing, the skin on my palm burning, my throat filled with smoke as I hoarsely called downstairs, "Michael! Save me! Michael Jones!" In the flickering blaze, I saw Michael Jones's figure appear at the living room doorway. He held Pamela Lynn tightly in his arms—the woman who always looked at me with innocent eyes—now curled up in his embrace, her face stained with false tears. Michael Jones's footsteps showed no hesitation; he didn't even glance back at me. His figure was as cold and resolute as ice, cutting through the sea of flames, pushing open the door and rushing out. "No—!" I screamed in despair, my body going limp as I slid down, clutching the stair railing. A sudden, excruciating cramp tore through my abdomen, as if countless knives were wildly twisting inside. I curled up on the floor, pressing my hands firmly against my lower abdomen, where the child Michael Jones and I carried was still growing—only three months along. The thickening smoke blurred my vision, and my consciousness began to fade. Just as I thought I was about to be consumed by the fire, I faintly heard urgent shouts from the firefighters downstairs: "Is anyone inside? Please respond if you can hear us!" When I woke again, my nostrils were filled with the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the glaring white light made me squint involuntarily. The doctor removed his blue mask, his eyes heavy with sorrow as he looked at me: "Ms. Emily Scott, I'm very sorry, but we couldn't save the baby." My heart suddenly clenched, as if all the blood in my body had instantly frozen. "There's more..." The doctor hesitated, his tone growing even graver. "Due to the severe trauma to your abdomen in the fire, your uterus could not be saved either. We have had to perform a removal surgery." My whole body trembled as I stiffly raised my hand, my fingertips brushing the heavily bandaged abdomen. A sharp, stabbing pain spread along my nerves, cutting deep into my soul. "My burns..." I struggled to speak, my voice hoarse and barely audible. The nurse beside me whispered gently, her eyes full of pity: "Ms. Scott, ninety percent of your body is burned, most of it deep second- and third-degree burns. You will need multiple skin graft surgeries, and the recovery will be very difficult." The hospital ward door was pushed open, and Michael Jones entered. He wore a sharp black suit, his hair neatly combed, and his face showed no trace of worry—only a cold, businesslike indifference. "Sign it." He threw two documents onto my bedside table, the papers sliding across the white sheets, starkly glaring. I struggled to lift my upper body, bearing the sharp pain as I reached for the documents. On top was the divorce agreement, stating that I voluntarily agreed to leave with nothing, forgoing all joint marital property. The one underneath was, shockingly, a corneal donation agreement, with the recipient's name clearly written as Pamela Lynn. "Leave with nothing? And you even want to donate my corneas?" I stared at him in disbelief, my voice trembling with anger. Michael Jones looked down on me from above, his gaze icy and devoid of any warmth: "Pamela Lynn miscarried because she was frightened by you; this is the compensation you owe." "I didn't set that fire!" I shouted hoarsely, the pain from my wound flaring as it was pulled taut. "She accidentally fell and knocked over the bottle of alcohol on the table! It had nothing to do with me!" "No one will believe you." Michael bent over, his rough fingers gripping my chin with such force it felt as if they might crush my bone. "Either you sign, or I'll make sure you stay in this hospital forever, locked inside the ward, never seeing a ray of sunlight again." I looked into his cold, heartless face, and in my mind flashed the image of the unborn child, the villa roaring in flames, and his back as he turned away without a moment's hesitation. Tears mingled with blood seeping from my wounds, sliding down my cheeks and dripping onto the papers, spreading dark stains across the sheets. I trembled as I picked up the pen; with every word I wrote, it felt as if my own heart was being torn apart. The pen's tip scraped across the paper, making a rustling sound—that was the sound of my heart shattering.