Chapter 2

My preparations were nearly complete.

The theatrical blood bag I had ordered online had arrived. The quality was incredible, and it was so realistic that it even had a faint, coppery smell that turned my stomach.

As for the "fetus," it was a medical-grade silicone model I had acquired through a less-than-legal online supplier. It was small, no bigger than my palm, a gruesome, unformed lump of flesh that was disturbingly lifelike.

I kept it hidden in the bottom drawer of the freezer, triple-wrapped in black plastic.

Every time I opened the door to grab something, I felt its cold, accusing presence.

This was insane. I knew that.

But to hunt a monster, you have to become one yourself.

This Friday was Andrew's birthday.

Traditionally, he liked to celebrate with a few drinks.

Alcohol, especially mixed with his medication, was a lit fuse for his condition.

I bought him his favorite bottle of wine, a ridiculously expensive Bordeaux that cost me nearly half the "hush money" I had accumulated over the past year.

You have to spend money to make money.

At seven o'clock, Andrew came home.

He was in a good mood, an Hermès shopping bag dangling from his hand.

"Happy birthday, baby."

I feigned confusion, blurting out, "It's your birthday, Andrew."

He smiled, leaning in to kiss my forehead. "I know. But I wanted to get you something. When you're happy, I'm happy."

For a split second, I felt a dizzying sense of disorientation.

If you could just erase the nights of violence, Andrew was the perfect husband: wealthy, romantic, and attentive.

He was a perfect husband who just happened to be a violent lunatic.

I opened the bag, finding a limited-edition Birkin bag.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"I love it," I said with a genuine smile. "Come on, dinner's ready. I made that slow-roasted brisket you love so much."

Candlelight flickered on the dinner table.

Andrew drank three glasses of wine in total.

His eyes began to glaze over, a flush creeping up his neck. His voice grew louder, more boisterous.

I could tell the effects were kicking in.

It wasn't the buzz from the wine. It was the special ingredient I had slipped into his glass.

It was a psychoactive drug, designed to amplify emotions and induce aggressive mania.

Andrew had been taking his prescribed lithium, but for the past week, I had been swapping the capsules with identical-looking vitamin C. The real chemical cocktail was in the wine.

"Jessica..."

He slammed his wine glass down on the table. The dark red liquid splashed across the white tablecloth like an arterial spray.

"Do you think I'm a joke?"

His eyes had changed.

That familiarly murderous light was back.

The show was about to begin.

I feigned terror, shrinking back in my chair.

"Andrew, what's wrong? Of course I don't think that."

"Yes, you do! You think I'm a pathetic psycho! You think I'm just living off my family's money!" Andrew yelled.

He shot to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor.

He rounded the dining table, closing the distance between us step by deliberate step.

I didn't retreat. Instead, I moved towards him, instinctively clutching my stomach.

The gesture was like gasoline on a fire.

"What are you hiding? Huh? Is there something in there? Is it some other bastard's kid?"

I didn't see this coming.

His delusions were far more violent than I had calculated.

Even so, it suited my purposes perfectly.

"Andrew! Are you insane? This is your child! I'm three months pregnant!" I shrieked, my voice shrill with practiced hysteria.

He let out a wild, unhinged laugh. "My child? I can't have children! I'm broken! I'm a fucking psycho! A psycho can't have a child!"

He roared, charging at me like a cornered animal.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head against the wall.

Bang!

The pain was blinding, but I held back the scream.

I let my body go limp, collapsing to the floor and curling into a ball.

"Don't... please... not the baby..." I sobbed, my voice growing weaker.

My pleas didn't reach him. They only fueled his rage.

"Die!" he screamed. "Both of you, just die!"

He drew back his foot and kicked me hard in the stomach.

He kicked me once and twice. The illusion of my ribs shattering filled my senses, but I didn't move. I was waiting for the hardest strike of all.

Now was the perfect timing!

I crushed the blood bag hidden beneath my dress.

A wave of warm, viscous fluid gushed out, soaking through my clothes and pooling on the pristine white tiles. The sight was shocking, a crimson stain spreading rapidly.

I let out one final, agonized scream and pushed the silicone model out from under my skirt.

Amidst the spreading crimson, it was nothing more than a small, purplish-black clump, looking sinister and terrifying in its stillness.

The world went silent.

Andrew stopped. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared, unblinkingly, at the blood and the tissue.

In an instant, his pupils snapped shut, and he went rigid, like a man struck by a sudden bolt of lightning.

I let my eyes flutter shut, pretending to faint.

But in that last second, I saw him shatter. His expression was one of unadulterated horror.

He wasn't terrified of the assault. He was terrified of the blood on his hands. In his mind, he believed he had just murdered his own child.