Alina’s POV
My eyelids felt heavy, glued shut. I forced them open, only to be stabbed by a splitting headache that made me groan. The ceiling above me wasn’t familiar, sterile white, too bright. The sharp sting of disinfectant in the air told me where I was before my gaze drifted sideways—an IV line pierced into my hand, a slow drip feeding into my veins.
“I didn’t know my stomach pain was this bad to land me here,” I whisper, my tone lined with pain. A heavy thought presses in. Maybe having s*x with Zayn made it worse.
Why do I even do the things I do? I kiss my husband, then I go and have s*x with a younger man.
Mom’s words echoed in my head—you need Jesus back in your life. Maybe she was right. Because right now, all my choices felt like sins stacked on sins.
The click of the door
