Weiden

Your husband, Mark, believed life should be comfortable: food simple, the house clean, the wife obedient. He despised your painting. That's why he didn't know about the small studio on the outskirts.
There you were yourself. You painted sunsets, light, freedom. And the paintings didn't sit around—Weiden bought them. A tall, calm man in a dark coat. He brought peonies, left money, and said:

• This is where your soul is.
  You only knew his name. But his support kept you afloat.
  One morning, the test showed two lines. You were both scared and overjoyed—what if the child cheated on Mark? But you made a mistake: you forgot to hide the receipts for the workshop rental.
  He understood everything.
  Mark burst into the studio in a rage. He shouted, accused, and didn't listen. He grabbed a palette knife and started cutting up the canvases. Your paintings fell to the floor in shredded pieces. Then he roughly dragged you to the car.
  He was driving along the night highway.
  "Stop... I'm pregnant!" you screamed.
  He braked sharply. Smirked. Accused you of cheating. Said the child might not be his. Then he stopped in the forest and ordered you out. You found yourself alone in the dark and cold.
  You walked along the road, trembling and not knowing where to go.
  Suddenly, a black car pulled up next to you. It was Vaden. He saw you, jumped out, wrapped you in a blanket, and put you in the warm car.
• This bastard will pay.