Chapter 122 How Could You Be So Cruel, Daniel?

Chapter 122 How Could You Be So Cruel, Daniel?
CHAPTER 122

How Could You Be So Cruel, Daniel?

The bedroom was quiet except for the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, a mechanical heartbeat that never wavered, never quickened, never slowed.

Late-afternoon light slanted through heavy drapes, turning the air golden and thick, the way honey looks when it’s poured slowly over a spoon.

Camille sat beside the bed, warm basin of soapy water balanced on the nightstand, soft washcloth in her hand.

Daniel lay still beneath the crisp white sheet. His hair had grown long in the months since the fall—dark strands curling against the pillow, longer than she'd ever seen it.

His skin had paled too, losing the sun-kissed bronze he used to wear like armor.

He looked younger this way. Almost innocent. Almost like the man she’d married.

She dipped the cloth, wrung it gently, and traced it along his forearm in slow, careful strokes.

“I went to the hospital today,” she said softly, voice warm like sunlight on skin. “The doctor let me listen to the heartbeat again. Strong. Steady. She said our baby’s growing beautifully—right on track.”

A small smile curved her lips as she moved the cloth to his shoulder, rinsing and repeating with the same tenderness she’d use on a sleeping child.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Camille continued, eyes brightening.

“To hold her close, feel her tiny fingers wrap around mine. To breastfeed her in the middle of the night when the house is quiet. To sit in that old rocking chair by the window and sing the lullabies my mother used to sing to me.

Maybe I’ll knit her little booties—soft pink ones with tiny bows. Or yellow, if she turns out to be a boy. I don’t know yet. But I already love every inch of her.”

She paused to rinse the cloth again, water dripping softly into the basin.

Edward and Katherine had moved Daniel to this separate bedroom weeks ago.

They’d wanted to give her space—breathing room after years of holding her breath.

After the truth came out about the bruises, the broken ribs, the miscarriages they’d never known about, guilt had settled over the family like fog.

Katherine especially—sophisticated, unflappable Katherine—had cried the day Camille finally spoke the words aloud.

Since then they’d treated her like spun glass: extra pillows, herbal teas, gentle hugs that lasted a second longer than usual. Olivia and Emilia too. They hovered, protective and sweet, as if one wrong move might crack her open.

They’d planned to move Camille to a new room, leaving Daniel alone in the old one.

But she’d shaken her head. “I can still sleep here,” she’d told them quietly. “I want to.”

And they’d respected it, even if their eyes said they didn’t understand.

Camille set the cloth aside and reached for the fresh towel.

“These past weeks…” she said, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “…they’ve been a blessing. More peace than I’ve felt in the last five years combined. No walking on eggshells.

No wondering what mood you’ll wake up in. Just quiet. And the baby. And I am finally starting to remember what my own heartbeat sounds like when I’m not afraid.”
She dried his arms, his chest, movements practiced and gentle.

“This is my routine now,” she told him, as if he might answer. “I come in every day. I bathe you. I change your clothes. I talk to you about the baby, about the weather, about how Katherine made that lemon tart you used to love. I tell you everything—as if you can hear me. As if you’re listening. And I'm content with it.” she laughed.

She finished drying him, folded the towel neatly, and stood.

“I’ll get you a clean shirt.”

The walk-in closet smelled faintly of cedar and his old cologne—still lingering in the seams of jackets he hadn’t worn in months.

Camille opened the last drawer, fingers searching for the soft gray T-shirt he liked best.

Her hand froze.

A small gasp slipped out.

She reached in slowly, trembling, and pulled out the flogger first—black leather tails braided tight—then the dagger, its blade catching the dim closet light like a cruel wink.

The metal was cold against her palm. Tears flooded her eyes instantly, hot and fast.

Memories crashed in like waves against rock.

She sank to the floor, back against the drawers, clutching both items to her chest.

The Alps. Three years ago. Their anniversary trip to St. Moritz.

FLASHBACK

Camille had awoken in the dark bedroom of the vacation house, wrists chained above her head to the heavy wooden bedpost, cold metal biting into skin.

She wore the pale-blue spaghetti-strap slip dress he'd picked out for dinner—now twisted and riding up her thighs.

Her head throbbed from too much wine, her mouth tasted sour.

She’d tried to move. The chains rattled. The cuffs dug deeper. Pain flared sharp along her wrists.

Then it all rushed back: the restaurant. Too many glasses of Chianti to drown the sorrows and sadness.

Daniel's furious face. Her voice rising, slurring, telling strangers at nearby tables that Daniel was cheating, that he hurt her.

Laughing hysterically at first—then vomiting across the tablecloth and his tailored suit jacket. Then passing out.

She'd humiliated him. Ruined everything.

Now it's 1:07 a.m. according to the clock on the nightstand.

Panic clawed up her throat.

“Oh dear God… Daniel?” Her voice cracked. “Daniel, please…”

Footsteps on the stairs—slow, deliberate.

The door opened.

He stepped inside, he had discarded his ruined jacket, now wearing his dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

His face calm. Too calm.

“Finally awake, sleeping beauty?”

Camille started apologizing before he even reached the bed.

“I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to drink that much—I didn't mean to embarrass you—”

His backhand cracked across her cheek. Her head snapped sideways. Copper bloomed on her tongue.

“It wasn't just the embarrassment,” he said quietly, dangerously soft.

“It was you announcing to every stranger who’d cared to listen that I cheat on you. That I hurt you.” He leaned closer. “Why did you do that, Cami?”

His belt buckle clinked as he unfastened it.

Tears streamed down her face.

“I don't know—I don't know what came over me—please, I didn't mean to. Daniel, forgive me—let me go—”

He whipped the belt against the mattress beside her hip.

She screamed, trying to curl away, chains rattling uselessly.

Again. Again. Again.

Each crack made her flinch harder, sobbing, begging.

Daniel crouched beside her face. “Do you really want to escape your punishment?”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—yes, I'm sorry—please…”

A chilling smile curved his lips.

“One condition.”

He straightened, opened the bedside drawer, and laid out the items one by one: the flogger, the dagger, a syringe filled with clear liquid.

Camille's stomach plummeted. She knew what the syringe meant—knew exactly what came after.

“No,” she whispered. “Daniel, please don’t…”

“You either take the condition and have a shot at freedom,” he said evenly, “or you stay chained and take what’s coming. Your choice.”

She had no choice.

“I'll do it,” she choked out.

“Good girl.”

He injected the liquid into the neck—cold fire spreading fast. Then he unlocked the cuffs.

“If you can reach the woods before it takes full effect,” he told her, “I won't punish you harshly. But if you don't…” His smile widened.

“You’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth at that table.”

He stepped back.

“Run.”

She bolted.

Down the stairs, legs already heavy, head pounding harder with every step.

She reached the front door, flung it open—cold night air slapped her face.

The woods loomed dark across the snow-dusted lawn.

His voice drifted from the top of the stairs.

“Tick-tock, Cami.”

She ran.

Legs numbing. Arms growing leaden.

She tumbled past his car—then collapsed face-down in the snow, body refusing to obey.

She couldn't move. Couldn’t scream. Only tears.

Daniel walked over slowly, shoes crunching. He crouched beside her.

Then he turned her over.

“Looks like I won again, Cami.” He brushed hair from her face almost tenderly. “Ready for your punishment?”

FLASHBACK ENDS

Camille sat on the closet floor, flogger and dagger trembling in her hands before they slipped.

That night he'd spent hours carving lines into her skin, flogging until she couldn’t cry anymore, hurting her over and over.

The wounds had been so deep they’d extended the trip by a week—long enough for the worst of the bruising to fade, long enough for her to be able to cover the scars with makeup and long sleeves.

She wiped her cheeks with the back of her wrist.

Slowly, she looked toward the bed where Daniel lay motionless.

“How could you be so cruel, Daniel?” She whispered, voice cracking. “Did you ever truly love me?”

The heart monitor answered with its unchanging beep-beep-beep.

Camille closed her, tears slipping free again.

And for the first time in months, the peace she’d felt these past weeks cracked—just a little.