After my husband, Gu Zhizhou’s childhood friend Xia Xingxing, broke a bone while skiing, he had someone break both my legs and throw me into the basement of our villa.
He thought I was responsible for his childhood friend’s injury, even though I hadn’t been anywhere near the scene.
Before I died, our five-year-old son begged him three times.
The first time, our son told him my fever wouldn’t come down and asked him to get me some medicine.
He said coldly, “Isn’t having a fever normal? I want her to suffer like Yinyin did.”
The second time, our son told him my wounds were oozing pus and crawling with maggots, and begged him to take me to the hospital.
But he cruelly replied, “She’s not dying. Tell me when she is.”
The third time, our son clung to his suit trousers and cried that I had stopped breathing and was about to die.
He impatiently kicked our son away. “It’s just a broken leg. The doctor said she won’t die.”
He didn’t know that I was already dead.
