LOVE BUILT FROM REVENGE

“You bitch.” Jeremiah’s voice was broken — not from pain, not yet — but from disbelief. He looked down at the wound blooming across his stomach, hands instinctively flying to hold the flesh together. Too late. Blood was already pouring through his fingers. Thick. Fast. Final. He staggered back, blinking at Anika like she was a ghost. Or a nightmare. His mouth opened, but no words came. Just a choked sound, part gasp, part prayer. He didn’t fall. Not yet. She stepped forward. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, calm as midnight. “I’ll make sure Aisha joins you in hell… very soon.” And then she moved. Quick. Controlled. Knife in hand — again, same spot. The steel tore into him like it belonged there. Jeremiah’s knees buckled. He made a sound she knew she’d never forget — soft and wet, like when a lie dies in someone’s throat. His body jerked violently, grasping at air, at her, at anything that could save him. But nothing was coming. She stabbed again. His breath hitched. Blood bubbled past his lips. His grip on life loosening like the buttons of the shirt she bought him for their wedding anniversary. Yes. Her husband. The man she once loved so hard, so stupidly, it cracked something permanent inside her. Again. Anika drove the knife deeper, until the disbelief in his eyes dulled into something simpler. Acceptance. Maybe regret. He collapsed at her feet like a final promise. She just stood there. Chest heaving. Blade dripping. And she didn’t cry. She’d done that already. Every night since their second wedding anniversary, a year ago. She had walked into the kitchen with a stupid little cake — vanilla, because he hated chocolate. And there she was. Aisha. Her legs wrapped around his neck. Her ass on the kitchen counter — the same one Anika used to prep his food, blend those high-protein, glute-building smoothies after he told her, stone-faced, she’d be “more fuckable” if she looked more like Aisha. Curvier. Tighter. Less… her. He was devouring Aisha like she was dessert. He didn’t even see Anika. His eyes were closed, as if it were sacred. He just kept pumping into her like his body had no memory of the woman he married. And he wore that face — the one he used to make when he touched Anika like she was the only thing in the room. That broke something. Not just in her heart — that would’ve been easy. It cracked in the bones. In the spine of who she was. She left without a word that night. Sat in the car for three hours, gripping the steering wheel like she could crush it. She cried. Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet, shaking sobs that scraped her throat and wouldn’t come out right. She didn’t remember when she stopped. Just that the silence after felt worse. And when she went back inside, she cleaned. The counter. The cabinet. The f*****g floor. Sanitized it like it was just another spill. He never even asked where she’d gone. Aisha texted her a smiley face the next day. Just one. No words. Her sister. Her big sister. The one who used to braid her hair and whisper that the world was cruel but she’d always be protected. The one who walked her down the aisle when their father couldn’t. She toasted her wedding with a shaky voice and tears in her eyes. And she sent a f*****g smiley face. After letting Anika’s husband taste her on the same countertop where she’d made her birthday cupcakes the year before. Anika didn’t respond. She buried it. Buried herself. Swallowed the betrayal whole and let it rot inside her like maybe she deserved it. Day after day. Smile after smile. She let them both live. Let them win. Until tonight. Until those two pink lines stared back at her like a sentence. Pregnant. She’d stared at that test until the air felt thick, heavy, like the walls were holding their breath. And just like that, the switch flipped. The promise she’d made to herself months ago — quiet, cold, absolute — snapped into focus. The moment I conceive, I end Jeremiah and Aisha. Because her child would not share a world with monsters. Would not breathe the same air. Would not grow up looking into the eyes of people who destroyed her and still dared to laugh. After wiping every surface, rinsing off the blade, and bagging her clothes, Anika stood in the middle of the kitchen — his blood drying on the floor like spilled paint. She didn’t rush. She didn’t tremble. She’d been here before, in her head, a thousand times. Now she was just following the script. She picked up the phone and dialed. “911.” “Emergency services. What’s your emergency?” She let the pause sit. Just long enough to feel human. Then: “My husband’s dead.” She inhaled. Sharp. Shaky — but practiced. “He’s been… he had enemies. People he owed. I told him it would catch up to him eventually. It finally did. There’s blood. Everywhere.” Her voice cracked just enough on blood. No crying. No dramatics. Just a woman in shock. A woman caught in someone else’s violence. She hung up after giving the address. Didn’t even stay on the line for comfort. Then she sat on the edge of the couch, hand resting on her lower stomach. She couldn’t feel anything yet. No flutter, no kick. Just a quiet knowing. The kind that sits in the bones. “I got you,” she said aloud. To the life growing inside her. “You’re safe now.” The sirens came fast. She stood as they pulled up. Checked the mirror — widened her eyes, softened her mouth. Tilted her head like someone too stunned to understand what just happened. And when they burst through the door, weapons drawn, voices raised, she didn’t scream. She didn’t panic. She let them see exactly what she wanted them to see. The grieving wife. The innocent one. The survivor. The funeral came in a blur. A blink. She didn’t lift a finger. Aisha planned everything. Flowers, the eulogy, the playlist — like she’d been waiting her whole life to perform this grief. She cried too much. Loud, trembling sobs that didn’t quite match her eyes. Too stupid to realize she was being too obvious. People watched Aisha more than they watched Anika. That was the first gift she ever gave her. Anika stood at the edge of the grave in a black dress, with dry eyes. Everyone whispered about how strong she was. How calm. How brave. If they only knew. When the coffin dropped, she didn’t blink. Didn’t even pretend to pray. Instead, she looked at Aisha — mascara smeared, mouth quivering, clinging to some cousin neither of them even liked. Her hands were shaking. Anika wasn’t. Later, after the fake condolences and the too-sweet wine, Aisha pulled her into the kitchen. “Why haven’t you cried?” she whispered, voice tight, breath soaked in gin. Anika smiled. Just a little. Enough for Aisha to see. No one else. “Because I’m pregnant,” she said, voice soft. Sacred. Aisha froze. Blinked. Opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “Your niece or nephew is growing inside me,” Anika added. “And I’m not giving them the poison of grief. Not one drop.” Aisha stepped back like she’d been slapped. Good. Anika had already planned to make her suffer. Kill her slowly. But even that wasn’t enough. Because she wasn’t done. Not even close. Death was mercy. And she wanted Aisha to feel what she’d felt that night. The hollow. The betrayal. The slow decay of self. So she let her live — for now. Let her keep showing up. Let her keep sending those “thinking of you” emojis like she wasn’t soaked in the blood of everything Anika lost. Because Anika already knew exactly how her sister would die.