Unloved: Gabriella’s Quiet Revenge

Gabriella Hill's POV ​"You promised tonight was just going to be about us, Michael," I said, keeping my voice as steady and calm as I could across the tempered glass dining table. Michael didn’t look up from his plate. He sliced into his rare steak with sharp, mechanical precision, the silver knife scraping against the fine ceramic. "I am sitting at this table, Gabriella," he replied, his tone as flat and cold as an Arctic winter. "We are eating the dinner you spent hours arranging. What more do you want from me?" ​I swallowed the lump in my throat, my fingers tightening beneath my napkin around a small red box. Inside was a positive pregnancy test and a fresh sonogram; the answer to four long, lonely years of praying for a spark of warmth in our marriage. Something I expected to save our unhappy union. ​"I want you to be here," I said, leaning forward. "Not just bodily present. I need your mind present, too. I need this time we have to share to be just about us. Just... us. It’s our fourth anniversary.” Michael lifted his dark eyes. Looking into them was like staring at a brutal beast. "You know how delicate the Hill Holdings acquisition is right now," he said smoothly, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. "Don't act neglected, Gabriella. I had my assistant send that Cartier diamond bracelet to your dressing room this morning. Did you not receive it?" My heart twisted. Sent by an assistant. As if four years of my unadulterated obedience and lost dreams meant nothing to him. "I don't care about the bracelet, Michael," I said, reaching out to cover his hand. His skin was cool, static, and unyielding. "I cared about having you home. Because tonight... I have news. Something that changes everything for us." His dark brow twitched slightly. "News? Did your father call you about the merger again? I thought I made my stance clear." "No," I cut in, a breathless, nervous smile breaking through my composure. "It’s not about my father. It’s about our family." I took a shaky breath, my heart pounding against my ribs as I slid the red box out from under my napkin. This is it, I thought frantically. “This will change the narrative." "Michael, I went to see Dr. Peter this morning, and…." Before I could finish, a high-pitched ringtone cut through the room. It wasn't his standard corporate chime. It was a soft, custom alert; a ringtone reserved for a single contact. Michael sat still. The indifference on his face suddenly left, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. He reached into his suit jacket, snatching his phone before I could even slide the box across the table. "Michael, please," I begged softly, pure desperation leaking into my voice. "Don't answer that. Just... open the box first. Give me two minutes." He didn't even hear me. He slid the screen open and pressed the receiver to his ear. "Sandra?" he demanded, standing up so fast his heavy dining chair scraped violently against the floor. "What’s wrong?" ​I sat still, stunned, watching the man who barely offered me three sentences a day express such energy, his face pale with a panic he had never shown for me. "A gas leak scare?" Michael barked into the phone, his deep voice tight. "Where are you? In the lobby of your building?" "Michael!" I stood up too, clutching the red box so hard the corners caused me discomfort. "Her apartment complex is six blocks away! The building management will handle a gas scare! It’s our anniversary!" He held up a single, sharp finger toward me, cutting me off as if I were an intrusive stranger while keeping his focus entirely on the line. "Stay right there on the sidewalk," he ordered into the phone, grabbing his suit jacket off the chair. "Don't move. I’m coming down to the scene right away." He ended the call, thrusting his phone into his pocket, and strode toward the foyer. "Michael, stop!" I ran after him, grabbing his forearm. Tears blurred my vision. "You promised me tonight! Why do you always have to be the one to run to her?!" He pulled his arm out of my grip with cold force. "She is alone out there, Gabriella. She sounds like one who is shaken up." "And I am your wife!" My voice cracked, the raw heartbreak tearing through my throat. "I have waited four years for you! I am carrying your child, Michael!" The words spilled out in a wild, panicked rush, hanging heavy in the wide dining room. Michael stopped near the heavy wooden front doors. He turned back to look at me, his dark eyes narrowing into an icy, warning glare. "We will discuss your health when I return, Gabriella," he said, his voice dropping into a stern, reprimanding register. "Using a serious claim like that just to force me to stay home is beneath you. Go upstairs and rest." "Michael!" The heavy door slammed shut right in front of me, the lock engaging with a sound that felt like a physical blow. Forty-five excruciating minutes passed in total silence and neglect. I didn't move from the grand foyer. I sat on the bottom step of the staircase, watching the tall anniversary candles on the dining table melt down into sticky pools of wax. The red box lay closed on the cold floor beside my heels. My hands rested over my stomach, cold, trembling, and numb. Suddenly, bright headlights flashed through the frosted panels of the front entrance. An engine purred to a halt in the private driveway. My heart gave a foolish, desperate flutter. He came back. He realized his mistake and came back. I scrambled to my feet, hastily wiping my tear-stained cheeks and smoothing down my dress. I stepped toward the door just as it swung open. "Michael, I___" The words died in my throat. Michael wasn't alone. His arm was locked firmly around Sandra’s waist. She wore a pale cotton dress, her brown hair slightly disheveled, her eyes watery and red. "Move aside, Gabriella," Michael ordered, guiding her over the threshold. I stepped back, my chest tightening until I could barely breathe. "Michael... what is she doing here?" "The fire department sealed my block for inspection," Sandra whimpered, her voice tiny and trembling as she clung to Michael’s lapel. "I... I was so terrified, Gabriella. The reporters were gathering outside, and I couldn't go to a hotel alone like this... I had nowhere else to go." "Michael, you own three private luxury residence suites in Max-Town," I said, my voice shaking with a dangerous mix of anger and grief. "She doesn't need to be in our home." "That's enough, Gabriella!" Michael’s sharp voice echoed off the high ceilings. "She is overwhelmed and exhausted. I am not sending her to sit in a hotel room while news crews circle her street. Go upstairs and prepare the guest room." I stared at him, blood rushing to my ears. "The guest room? The one directly connected to our master suite balcony?" "Yes," Michael snapped, his jaw setting into a hard line. "Do as I say." He turned to Sandra, his tone instantly softening into something gentle. "Sit on the bench in the landing, Sandra. I’ll go fetch you a glass of lukewarm water from the kitchen." "Thank you, Michael..." she whispered softly. Michael walked past the staircase toward the back kitchen, leaving the two of us alone in the massive, echoing foyer. I stood at the top of the landing, my fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my skin. I couldn't take another step toward the guest room. The sheer humiliation was suffocating me. Sandra slowly walked up the steps until she reached the top landing, standing just two feet away from me. "Sandra," I said, my voice cold, raspy, and stripped of all meekness. "You are leaving this house first thing tomorrow morning." Sandra stopped. She didn't sniffle. She didn't wipe away a single tear. Slowly, she lifted her head. The timid, terrified expression on her face vanished so completely it felt like looking at a different person. A small, chilling smirk curved her lips. "Leaving?" Sandra whispered, her voice dropping into a smooth, deadly purr that didn't carry down the hall. "Why would I leave, Gabriella? Michael brought me here himself." ​"Get out of my face," I breathed, taking a defensive step back toward the edge of the stairs. ​"Four years of cooking his meals and sitting in this quiet house like a stranger," Sandra mocked softly, taking a slow, mocking step toward me, her eyes gleaming with malice. "And he still dropped everything the second I picked up the phone. You were only ever keeping his bed warm until I was ready to claim him." "He is my husband!" I hissed. "Is he?" Sandra sneered. In the next fraction of a second, Sandra’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen hallway. She didn't try to drag me. Instead, she deliberately caught the edge of my long sleeve in her grip, feigned a violent gasp, and flung her own body backward off the top marble step. "Gabriella, no—!" Sandra shrieked at the top of her lungs. The sudden jerk of her weight pulled me off balance. My heel caught the polished edge of the top riser, and the world spun violently out of control. "Ahhh!" We crashed down the hard marble staircase together in a terrifying blur of tumbling limbs and tearing fabric. My spine slammed repeatedly against the sharp edges of the steps before we both smashed heavily onto the cold marble floor below. A blinding, tear-inducing pain exploded through my lower abdomen. "Argh!" I gasped, curling into a ball on the floor as a sickening, hot fluid began to soak through my dress and pool beneath my thighs. Heavy, panicked footsteps thundered from the kitchen corridor. "Sandra!" Michael shouted, sprinting into the foyer. I lay on my side, gasping for oxygen, reaching one blood-stained hand toward my husband as my vision blurred around the edges. "Michael..." I choked out, absolute terror ripping through my soul as agony tore through my body. "The... the baby... help me..." Michael didn't look down at my reaching hand. He didn't even look at my face. He stepped right over my arm, dropping to his knees beside Sandra, who was weeping uncontrollably while cradling her wrist. "Michael... she lost her temper..." Sandra sobbed hysterically into his chest, her body shaking. "I tried to talk to her... but she grabbed me and threw us both down..." Michael lifted Sandra into his arms with fierce, protective urgency. He turned his head toward me for a fraction of a second, his face pale with a terrifying, dark fury. "You've lost your mind, Gabriella," he spat, his voice dripping with pure disgust. "Lock her in her room," he barked at the two security guards rushing in through the front entrance. "Nobody lets her out until I return from the hospital!" "Michael, please…look at the floor!" I screamed, a sob tearing through my chest as I clutched my bleeding stomach. "Michael!" He didn't turn back. He carried Sandra out into the sweeping rain, and the heavy entrance doors slammed shut behind him, leaving me locked inside, bleeding alone on the cold marble floor.