She Stole His Gratitude, I Exposed Her

My husband, Jonathan Smith, froze for a split second, then his brows furrowed slightly. "Queenie, you know I'd never let anything happen to you or the baby. It's just a few extra days, there's no need to panic. And don't ever joke about divorce again. That kind of talk hurts what we have." Jasmine twirled the camera in her hand. "That's right, Queenie. You're still a whole month out from your due date, anyway. Human trafficking content is blowing up right now. If you stay a little longer, the footage will turn out so much better. I'll make you famous, I promise!" Jonathan shot her an indulgent, doting look before turning his gaze back to me. "Jasmine did me a huge favor once. As my wife, the least you can do is help her out." Those words unlocked a flood of ugly, buried memories from the past all at once. When Jasmine came back to the country, she'd announced she wanted to be a famous reporter. But every single story she'd put out since then had been a targeted hit job on me. She'd secretly snapped photos of me at the gym, then cooked up a headline screaming: "New York's Elite Circle's Crown Princess Allegedly Cheating on Her Husband." She'd camped out in front of my parents' house for days, just to publish a garbage report claiming: "Greedy Rich In-laws Demand Exorbitant Bride Price Nonstop." She'd even snuck photos of me when I was in the throes of my worst morning sickness, pale and exhausted, and paired them with a vicious lie: "The Truth Behind Her Shotgun Wedding: Common Gold-digger Schemed Her Way Into a Rich Family, Now Cries All Day Long." All those fake stories subjected my entire family to six straight months of online harassment. My parents were bombarded with so many harassing calls that they developed chronic anxiety, and they still rely on sleeping pills just to fall asleep every night. Now they'd stooped to this fake "k********g" stunt, just to use my suffering as clickbait. I clenched my fists so tight my knuckles went white, lifted my battered, bruised face, and stared straight at Jonathan. "A journalist who makes up fake news and hurts other people just to get attention? You think that even counts as a real reporter? Jonathan, look at me! Aren't the bruises all over my body enough? What more do you want from me?" Jonathan's gaze flicked over my injuries, and a flash of sympathy and distress crossed his eyes. Jasmine immediately turned to Jonathan, her face crumpling into a hurt, wronged pout. "Jonathan, why is your wife making me sound like such a monster? If she doesn't want to help, fine. I might not be able to explain this to my editor, but worst comes to worst, I can just give up being a reporter entirely." Jonathan's hesitation vanished instantly. "Being a reporter is your dream. How could I let you give that up?" "Queenie, just stay a little longer. I promise no one will lay a finger on you, and I'll come pick you up the second the time is up to take you home." It hit me like a ton of bricks. I stared at him, my face draining of all color. I couldn't believe he would throw his own very pregnant wife to human traffickers to be brutalized, all for his childhood sweetheart's career. Jasmine curled her lips into a smug smirk, then leaned in close to my ear. "Earlier, you said all my news was fake, right, Queenie? How about this time I make sure the story about the wife of the New York social circle heir getting kidn*pped to the mountains, gang assaulted, and reduced to washed-up trash is 100% real? Don't thank me too much." There was no hiding the pure venom in her voice. I didn't hesitate for a second. I grabbed a fistful of her curls and punched her over and over as hard as I could, hitting her just the way those human traffickers had hit me. "Ah! It hurts!" Jasmine let out a shrill, bloodcurdling scream, and her camera clattered to the ground with a crash. "Queenie! Let her go, right now!" Jonathan's face twisted in an instant. He lunged forward, shoved me hard, and pulled Jasmine behind him, shielding her protectively with his body. When he turned to look at me, his eyes were blazing with shock and unbridled fury. "When did you turn into such a vicious person? How could you raise a hand to her? Do you have any idea how delicate she is? That must have hurt like hell!" The force of his shove nearly sent me sprawling to the floor. A tidal wave of searing heartache and suffocating grief crashed over me, stealing my breath for a second. Staring at the man who'd once sworn to protect me with his life, now standing guard over another woman like his life depended on it. A hollow, bitter grief settled deep in my bones. "She's delicate? What about me? I'm not exactly indestructible, am I? I'm carrying your child, for God's sake." Jonathan's face went stiff, his jaw tightening as the words registered. Jasmine buried her face softly in his chest, sniffling tearfully, her shoulders shaking like a leaf in a storm. "Jonathan, don't blame her. It's my fault, I was just so desperate to get a good story. She has every right to be mad. But it hurts so bad, she hit me really hard." "She was completely out of line. I'll apologize for her." Jonathan said, holding her gently, his voice soft with concern for her before he snapped a sharp warning at me. "Queenie, as soon as Jasmine finishes her news piece, I'll come pick you up. Stop acting like a spoiled brat, or I swear I will lose my temper." With that, he turned and walked away, holding the sniffling Jasmine in his arms. I stared at his retreating back, watching as he chose Jasmine over me yet again. My heart shattered into a million pieces, drowning in utter, bottomless despair. Enough was enough. I was done letting my love for him give him permission to hold a knife to my throat over and over again.