Daniella lay on the cold bathroom floor for what felt like hours, the pain a relentless fire that slowly ebbed into a dull, throbbing ache. Blood soaked her clothes and the tiles beneath her. Every breath hurt. Every shift sent fresh waves of agony through her body. But she was alive. The fetus was gone—dragged out in a desperate, violent act of self-destruction.Christian killed my father. He deserves nothing from me. Not a child. Not a future.The thought anchored her through the haze. Revenge was still her purpose. Love was the lie she had almost fallen into. This… this was necessary. A reset.She dragged herself up using the sink, legs shaking, vision swimming. The mirror reflected a stranger: pale face, haunted eyes, hair matted with sweat and blood. She looked exactly like the broken girl who had watched her father die thirteen years ago.“Good,” she whispered to her reflection. “Remember who you are.”With mechanical precision, Daniella cleaned the worst o
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