Swapped: His Dead Wife's Revenge의 모든 챕터: 챕터 11 - 챕터 15

June's PovI didn't know what time it was when I finally pulled myself off the floor. But the light outside the window had changed. Gone darker. Evening was settling in.My whole body felt sore. Disgusted. Used.I forced myself to stand up and walked to the bathroom like a ghost. Every step reminded me of what Nikolai had just done. What he'd taken from me.I turned on the shower again and stood under the water until it ran cold.When I got out, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were red and swollen from crying. My face looked pale and hollow. Like someone had reached inside me and scooped out everything important.I dried off slowly and went back to the closet. Pulled out a simple dress. Nothing fancy. Nothing that would draw attention. I just wanted to disappear into the background.I got dressed carefully. My body protested every movement.Then I looked at the clock on the nightstand.Six fifty-eight.Shit.Dinner was at seven.I took a deep breath and walked toward the

June's POVI didn't even know what I was looking for.That was the worst part. I was in Nikolai's room, opening drawers, running my hands along shelves, looking through papers on his desk, and I had no idea what I was hoping to find.Clues, maybe. Anything that would help me understand what happened to me. Who these people were. Why I was trapped in this nightmare.I couldn't just stay like this. Couldn't just live in somebody's shadow. Pretending to be Chloe Russell while my real life disappeared further and further into the past.And the fact that Nikolai didn't even know it was him who killed me made everything worse. He looked at me with disgust and hatred, thinking I was some desperate woman who'd manipulated him into marriage. When really, I was the woman he'd shot in cold blood at a restaurant.The woman whose babies he'd killed.Blue's number still wasn't going through. I'd tried again this morning. Nothing. Just that automated voice telling me the number wasn't available.I w

June’s POV The next morning, I woke up wishing I were dead. Every inch of my body screamed in protest—muscles torn and bruised, my pussy still swollen and raw from how brutally he’d fucked me the night before, my throat sore from his cock ramming down it while he made me watch in the mirror. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sick, suffocating shame coiled in my gut. I could still feel it: the stretch of him forcing his thick length past my lips, the way my cunt had clenched and dripped even as tears ran down my face, the humiliating gush of my own wetness when he’d choked me and called me his filthy little wife. I’d come—actually come—while he used me like a disposable hole. The memory made bile rise in my throat. I stayed in bed for what felt like forever, staring at the ceiling, trying to disappear into the sheets. Eventually biology forced me up. The shower scalded my skin, but it couldn’t burn away the feeling of being filthy. I scrubbed between my legs until