My husband, Ryan Miller, is a best-selling author.   By writing stories about me, he won three literary awards.   His breakout work is titled I'll Stay with You at the Edge of the World, which sold over ten million copies.   In the book, he's gentle and devoted—taking care of his "messed-up" wife for ten years straight.   And I'm that crazy woman.   Today, my therapist handed me that book for the tenth time.   "Mrs. Miller, look how much Mr. Miller loves you. You're just sick. Stop hurting him."   I saw the pity in her eyes and suddenly laughed till I cried.   You know what? She's right. I am sick. He's so obsessed with painting me as some loony tune, isn't he? Fine then. I'll show him what real crazy looks like.

5 years into our marriage, my husband said to me, "I want to have a child with my ex-girlfriend. She's dying. This is her last wish." I thought he was asking for my opinion. Only later did I realize he was simply informing me. 10 months ago, they had already completed the embryo transfer. Not once had he ever asked whether I wanted any of this. I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene. I simply placed the divorce agreement in front of him. He was in a hurry to leave, so he signed it without even reading it. Then I scheduled a pregnancy termination and bought a one-way ticket to Viremont. Now, he stood in the rainy night in Viremont, holding a 10-carat pink diamond ring and begging me to come back to his side. Beside me was a man who would quietly keep me company even when all I wanted to do was feed pigeons. 'Too bad, Dominic. I no longer needed you. What you signed with your own hand wasn't just our divorce agreement. It was also our child, and every future we might have had.'

Eighteen years ago, the apocalypse hit. And me? I was the child of God—the one and only "angel" of Ark Bunker, the last shelter on Earth. I ate the freshest canned food and slept on the softest bed. I didn't have to work like the others. All I had to do was put on a pretty dress, pray somewhere quiet—and just like that, no monster dared come within miles of Ark Bunker. Everyone treated me like glass. They'd do anything to keep me safe. Then the old chief magistrate stepped down and handed the reins to his daughter. She was all about "equality." She'd hated me for a long time—saw me as nothing but a mistress her father kept. On her first day in charge, she sent my protection team out for supplies. Then she had me strung up high above a sea of crawling monsters. "You said monsters stay away because of you," she said. "Let's find out if that's true." I clawed at the ropes. My dress tore; my thighs were scraped raw and bleeding. "Please," I said, "just get me a new dress—or I'll lose my power. If my power goes away, Ark Bunker will fall. Everyone will die." She just laughed, then nodded toward the men beside her. They lunged at me, pinned me down, and ripped my dress to shreds in front of everyone. The moment my skin was exposed to the open air, they lost their minds with regret.