My husband is a rising star in Shanghai.
At a masquerade ball held by our social circle, his friends gathered around a woman and called her "sister-in-law."
When I tried to approach them and ask what was going on, they mistook me for a scheming woman trying to climb the social ladder.
To teach me a lesson, they beat me like a punching bag.
Amniotic fluid mixed with blood ran down my legs, a horrifying sight.
My husband watched from not far away. Behind our masks, he couldn't see my pain, and I couldn't see his expression. All I could hear was his soft voice soothing the woman:
"Susu, it's your birthday today. You can do whatever you want, as long as you're happy."
Then he kicked me in disgust.
"You're filthy. Someone like you thinks she can climb into my bed? Don't worry. When you die, I'll tell your family to come collect your body."
My consciousness began to fade.
The man before me had held me and kissed me endlessly that very morning, telling me he loved me more than anything.
Now he was torturing me alongside everyone else.
