I still remember the day they took him away. The flashing red-and-blue lights, the uniformed officers, the way he looked at me—not with fear, not with regret, but with irritation, as if I was an inconvenience in his life.

I didn’t ask why he was in a hotel room with another woman. I didn’t demand explanations. My love for him was stronger than my pride.

I worked day and night, selling everything I owned, borrowing from anyone who would listen. I stood in the suffocating heat of a courtroom, pleading with lawyers, begging judges, and crying myself to sleep.

My hands bled from labor. My body weakened, but my heart refused to stop.

And after months of suffering, I finally did it. I paid the price. I freed him.

I waited outside the prison gates, trembling with relief. He stepped out, clean-shaven, unbothered, like he hadn’t spent a day behind bars.

I ran to him, expecting warmth, gratitude—something.

He barely looked at me.

"Sign these," he said, shoving a stack of papers into my hands.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded them. Divorce papers.

I laughed, thinking it was a joke. Then I saw the cold finality in his eyes.

"You didn’t think I’d stay with you after all this, did you?" His voice was calm, almost amused. "I never loved you, and now that I’m free, I don’t need you anymore."

The world tilted. My breath caught in my throat.

"But… I saved you," I whispered.

"And I wish you hadn’t."

Then, as if tearing my soul apart wasn’t enough, he called the police.

A crime I didn’t commit. A false accusation. A fabricated story.

They dragged me away in handcuffs. The same way they had taken him.

I screamed. I begged. I pleaded.

He didn’t even stay to watch.

As they shoved me into a cell, darkness swallowed me whole. My love had been my curse. And now, I was paying the price.