Payback in Blood

Today marks the third anniversary of my marriage to Zachary Lucas. Outside the window, heavy snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the world in pristine white. I sat in the car, holding the freshly made chocolate cake in my hands. Written in chocolate on the cake were the words, "Zack, happy third anniversary." Wayne, our driver, drove steadily, murmuring, "Mrs. Lucas, the snow is heavy so we should drive carefully, hoping we would not make Mr. Lucas impatient." I smiled and shook my head. "No rush, safety first." But inside, I was brimming with anticipation. Zachary is the CEO of the Lucas Group, usually so busy he barely has a moment to breathe. For this anniversary, he had made a special effort to cancel all his appointments, saying he wanted to spend it properly with me. The car had just turned past the third intersection when the accident suddenly occurred. An out-of-control big truck came barreling from the side, crashing into our car with a loud "bang." I felt myself violently thrown toward the passenger seat, my forehead slamming against the car window in sharp pain. Then, another loud crash followed—a car rear-ended us from behind. A chain reaction of crashes. I tried to sit up, but a sudden, tearing pain erupted in my abdomen. Warm liquid trickled down my leg, staining my beige cashmere pants crimson. Panic surged in my heart as I instinctively reached toward my lower abdomen. There, our child—Zachary's and mine—had just reached three months. "The child... my child..." My voice trembled as I tried to pull out my phone to call Zachary. The phone slipped under the seat; its screen shattered. Wayne had already lost consciousness, blood soaking his forehead. I forced open the car door; cold wind mixed with snowflakes rushed in, chilling me to the bone. Not far away, Zachary's car was also at the scene of the accident. He was holding a girl, hurrying toward the arriving ambulance. That girl is Monica, the daughter of Katy, who is our housemaid. I saw that Monica had scraped her arm and was leaning against Zachary's chest, crying. "Zack!" I shouted through the stabbing pain in my abdomen, "I'm here! My stomach... the child..." Zachary glanced back at me. His gaze was calm, completely devoid of worry, yet tinged with impatience. "I'm busy. Wait a moment," he said. After saying this, he held Monica tightly and climbed into the ambulance; the door slammed shut with a bang as it sped away. I stood in the snow, my entire body freezing cold. He saw my misery, saw the blood on my leg, yet chose to save Monica, who was lightly injured. Tears mixed with melted snow ran down my face, then froze, burning painfully. A passing traffic officer spotted me and rushed over: "Are you okay? I'll take you to the hospital!" The officer helped me into the police car, and all the while, the pain in my stomach grew more intense. When we arrived at the hospital, I was rushed directly into the emergency room. The doctor came out, his face grave as he looked at me: "Mrs. Lucas, I'm sorry, your child couldn't be saved." My mind buzzed once, then went completely blank. The child is gone. Our child—Zachary's and mine—is gone. I lay in the hospital bed, tears silently streaming down my face. After an uncertain stretch of time, I heard the hospital ward door being pushed open. It was Zachary. He still had snow clinging to him, carrying a fruit basket in his hand. "How are you?" He walked to the bedside, his tone neutral, as if speaking to a stranger. I looked at him and suddenly recalled his coldness at the scene of the car accident. A surge of anger and hurt welled up inside me. I yanked the IV needle out from the back of my hand, stumbled out of bed, and rushed out of the ward. The nurse tried to stop me, but I pushed her aside. I know which ward Monica is in—the traffic police just told me the ambulance took her to the surgical ward of the city center hospital. I found a mop in the corridor, snapped the wooden handle off with all my strength, and gripping the bare stick, charged toward the surgical ward. The ward door was ajar. Monica was leaning against the bed, eating the fruit Zachary had made for her, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. There was only a small adhesive bandage on her arm. "Monica!" I rushed in, raising the wooden stick to strike her. Zachary quickly blocked me and pushed me aside. "Luna! Are you out of your mind?" "I'm out of my mind?" Tears streamed down my face as I looked at him once more. "Zachary, look at me! I lost our child! And her? She just has a small scrape, yet you held her as you got into the ambulance, leaving me alone in the snow!" Zachary frowned. "I treat Monica as my younger sister—there was no physical betrayal." "Your sister?" I sneered, "Does sister mean you'd be here caring for her while your wife is miscarrying?" "Don't be unreasonable!" Zachary's tone turned stern. "Monica is still young and frightened. What's wrong with me taking care of her? As for you, you've always been such a spoiled brat, nothing like a dignified lady should be." I looked at him and suddenly felt like a stranger. This man is the husband I've loved for three years. But now, after I lost our child, he blames me for being a spoiled brat. My heart slowly grew cold. I put down the wooden stick in my hand, my voice terrifyingly calm: "Zachary Lucas, I want a divorce." Zachary was momentarily stunned, as if he hadn't expected me to say that. "Luna, don't be so ridiculous." "I'm not joking." I looked into his eyes. "I'm serious. I'm divorcing you."