JUDY’S POV
I lay on the bed, the sheets wrinkled beneath my thighs, my skin still marred with faint traces of bruises. The room smelled of iron and sweat.
Chris had left hours ago, saying nothing, as he often did after our sessions. This time, though, something was different. I could barely lift my head without the world spinning.
The nausea had been relentless for three days.
I clutched my stomach and whispered to myself, “It’s just the aftermath. I’ll be fine.”
Unfortunately, I wasn’t, and I think, deep down, I already knew why.
Chris returned that evening, quieter than usual. He stood by the door, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, his eyes avoiding mine.
“I haven’t touched you in three days,” he said. “Are you still weak?”
“I’ve been vomiting,” I murmured. “Every morning. I thought
