A Love Designed to Hurt

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my marriage to Ethan Shane. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting light upon the dining table. I placed the final white rose and waited for his return. We have been married for five years; our relationship, though not tempestuous, has been steady and harmonious. Ethan Shane is the CEO of Shane Group, handsome and wealthy. To outsiders, I am Elizabeth Goth, a woman who married well. The phone rang. It wasn't Ethan Shane—it was an unknown number. I answered the call. A hoarse male voice came through, without any unnecessary pleasantries, saying that if Ethan wanted to see me, five million in cash must be prepared. My mind went blank, and my hand holding the phone trembled uncontrollably. Before I could react, the door was violently kicked open, and two masked men rushed in. They covered my mouth and dragged me, shoving me into the van outside. I struggled desperately, but one of them kicked me hard in the waist, the pain nearly sapping all my strength. The van jolted wildly all the way; I had no idea where they were taking me. Fear swept over me like a rising tide. They locked me in a dark, damp, abandoned warehouse, my hands and feet bound. For the next several hours, I didn't drink a drop, curled up in a corner, praying that Ethan Shane would find me soon. In the early hours, the warehouse door burst open, and Ethan Shane rushed in with the police. When he saw me, his eyes brimmed with anxiety as he hurried forward to untie my bonds. "Elizabeth, don't be afraid. I'm here." He held me tightly, his voice trembling just enough to be barely perceptible. Leaning against him, my taut nerves finally unraveled, and I wept uncontrollably. After my rescue, Ethan Shane grew even more attentive, turning down nearly all his work to stay by my side. I thought the nightmare had finally ended, and life would return to its proper course. But when my period didn't come a month later, a faint unease stirred within me. I secretly bought a pregnancy test, and the two vivid red lines appeared before my eyes—I was pregnant. I mustered the courage to tell Ethan Shane; he paused for a moment, then a smile appeared on his face as he reached out to stroke my stomach. "I will take good care of both of you." But the joy did not last long; Ethan's attitude soon grew somewhat ambiguous. He began to inquire indirectly, asking about the details of my kidnapping, especially regarding the kidnappers. Sensing something was amiss, I took the initiative to explain that during the kidnapping, I had always been bound, and the kidnappers only wanted money—they never insulted me. Ethan nodded, saying he believed me, yet the doubt in his eyes did not fade. A few days later, he returned holding a paternity test report, his face dark. "Elizabeth, look at this." He handed me the report, his voice icy. The results on the report were clear and unequivocal: the child in my womb was not biologically related to Ethan Shane. I felt struck by lightning, staring at the report in disbelief, checking it over and over again. "That's impossible. There must be a mistake!" I clutched Ethan's hand, pleading desperately. Ethan withdrew his hand, his tone measured: "I hope it's a mistake too. We'll do it again." The second time, the third time, all the way to the ninth time, every paternity test report showed the same result. Nine reports, like nine sharp daggers, pierced through my final hope. I explained over and over, pleaded repeatedly, yet Ethan Shane remained silent, the disappointment in his eyes growing increasingly profound.