Chasing her Return

Chapter 3: Divorced

When I entered the visitor room, Miguel was already seated, exuding an air of cold dominance. The envelope in his hand seemed to embody the finality of his decision. My heart raced with a flicker of hope that perhaps he might show some remorse, declare his love, or ask for my forgiveness. But as I took my seat, that hope was swiftly crushed.

Miguel barely glanced at me. Without a word, he slid the envelope across the table with a deliberate and dismissive motion. “I want a divorce,” he stated, his voice void of warmth or compassion.

The words hit me like a physical blow. I gasped, struggling to breathe as the weight of his betrayal settled over me. Here I was, confined in prison, and he was using this moment to end our marriage. His cruelty seemed boundless.

Miguel’s gaze remained impassive as he continued, his tone cold and contemptuous. “Cora’s life is at risk because of you. You need to pay for that.”

His words were like a blade slicing through the remnants of my dignity. He had used me, disrespected me, and now he was relishing in my suffering. The man I had endured so much for was now treating me like an inconvenience.

The anger inside me burned uncontrollably. “You think you can just throw me away like trash?” I demanded, my voice shaking with a mix of fury and heartbreak.

“After everything I’ve done for you, you’re abandoning me in prison and demanding a divorce?”

Miguel’s expression was unyielding, his eyes cold. “You were never more than a convenience,” he said bluntly.

"Now, you’ve gone too far, and this is the price you’ll pay.”

The realization that I had been nothing more than a servant to him, that my role as his wife was merely a facade, hit me with crushing finality. All the sacrifices, all the pain—I had been used and then discarded, left to suffer alone while he moved on with his new life.

I grabbed the envelope from the table and opened it. Inside was a stack of neatly typed divorce papers. I stared at the document, feeling a sense of numb resignation. Miguel’s cold, calculating presence only made the reality of my situation sink deeper.

Miguel watched with an unreadable expression as I took the pen he had provided. My hand trembled as I signed the papers, each stroke of the pen feeling like a betrayal of my own hope. The finality of it all was almost too much to bear, but there was no room for negotiation, no second chances.

Once I finished, I pushed the signed documents back across the table.

“There,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, though the bitterness in it was clear.

“You’ve got what you wanted. You’ll regret this.”

Fury erupted within me, an intense and visceral anger that I could no longer contain. I stood up abruptly, the envelope lying between us like a symbol of my shattered dreams.

“You will regret this,” I said through gritted teeth, my voice seething with bitterness.

“You’ll see. You’ll pay for this.”

Miguel’s eyes briefly flickered with something—perhaps guilt or uncertainty—but it was quickly masked by his usual arrogance. He stood up, turning on his heel and walked out of the room without another word.

When I returned to my cell, the crushing weight of Miguel's final act of cruelty pressed heavily on me. My heart felt like it was breaking into pieces as I sank onto the cold, unforgiving floor. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, tears streaming down my face. I whispered softly to my baby, who was the only source of light in this dark, overwhelming moment.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I murmured, my voice choked with emotion. “I promise I will take care of you. I will protect you no matter what. We’re going to get through this, I swear.”

8 Months later...

The silence in the cell felt suffocating, the cold bars pressing in on me. All I wanted was to fight for my freedom and for our future, no matter what it took. The thought of Miguel and Cora Kensington, living their lives without a second thought about the pain they had caused, fueled my anger.

I clenched my fists, the anger inside me igniting a fierce determination. I would not let Miguel or his new life interfere with mine. He would never know about our baby, never have any claim to be a father. I would ensure that our child grows up without the shadow of his cruelty hanging over us.

Suddenly, a woman strode in, her presence radiating authority. With a tattoo snaking down her arm and an air of commanding confidence, she seemed to demand instant obedience.

She stopped in front of me and said sharply, “Massage my back.”

I stared at her, frustration boiling over. I was tired of being treated like a puppet, whether by Miguel or anyone else. “No,” I said firmly. “I’m not doing that.”

Her expression darkened, and before I could react, she grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking it painfully. A cry escaped my lips as a sharp sting shot through my scalp.

“Listen up,” she said, her voice cold and threatening. “You’re going to do what I say. If you don’t, you’ll find out what real pain is.”

Fear surged through me, not just for myself but for the baby inside me. I had no choice but to obey to protect my baby.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I nodded, my voice barely a whisper. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

The woman released my hair with a satisfied sneer and took a seat on the cot. “Good. Get to it.”

With trembling hands, I moved to her side and began to massage her back. Every touch felt like a defeat, a stark reminder of my powerlessness. Her muscles were tight, and each movement was shadowed by my resignation and fear for my unborn child.

As I worked, I tried to push aside my growing anguish and focus on the task at hand. My mind spun with thoughts of escaping this nightmare and finding a way out. I had to stay strong, for my baby’s sake and for the future I was determined to fight for it.

“This isn’t working,” she snapped suddenly, her voice like a razor’s edge. Her tone was laden with menace, and I could sense the shift in her mood. “You’re making it worse. I should have known better than to trust you with this.”

“I’m just trying to—” I began, but she cut me off with a sharp jerk of her shoulder, forcing me to stumble back slightly.

“Trying to what? To fail? To disappoint? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing,” she growled, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She was a dominant figure in the prison, her presence commanding respect and fear. Her anger wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

I swallowed hard, trying to stay calm despite the rising tide of fear. “I can fix it,” I said, though my voice trembled with the anxiety of impending conflict.

But before I could do anything further, her patience snapped. Her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist in a vise-like grip. The pain was immediate and intense, and I could see the cruel satisfaction in her eyes as she twisted my arm.

“You think you can just mess with me and get away with it?” she hissed. Her anger was no longer directed solely at my hands; it was a force unto itself. “You’re going to pay for this.”

Her sudden movement threw me off balance, and I found myself crashing to the hard, cold floor. My body slammed against the grimy surface, sending a shockwave of pain through me. Her fury had turned into a physical assault, each strike deliberate and merciless. I tried to shield myself, but my feeble attempts only seemed to fuel her rage further.

I could feel something warm and wet spreading between my legs, a stark contrast to the chill of the floor. Panic surged as I looked down and saw the blood staining the floor beneath me. My heart raced, each beat a drum of terror echoing through my veins.

“Stop! Please!”

The last plea left my lips as a ragged whisper before everything collapsed into darkness.