My pregnant wife’s father and eight brothers beat her so brutally that our unborn child died, then stood outside her ICU room laughing while they told me I wasn’t powerful enough to touch them.

Clara woke up three days later in a medical suite built entirely of reinforced steel and bulletproof glass, hidden deep beneath my private estate.

I was sitting in a chair beside her bed when her eyelids fluttered.

“Adrian?” her voice was a fragile, broken rasp.

I leaned forward instantly, carefully brushing a stray lock of hair from her bruised forehead.

“I’m here, darling. I’m right here.”

She tried to sit up, but a sharp gasp of pain escaped her lips as her fractured collarbone protested. She fell back against the pillows, her breath coming in ragged pants.

Then, her eyes widened.

Her hand shot down to her stomach. It was flat.

“Adrian...” she whispered, her voice trembling with a terror that shattered my remaining sanity. “Where... where is the baby?”

I couldn't speak. The words lodged in my throat like broken glass. I just looked at her, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

Clara let out a sound I will never forget as long as I live. It wasn't a cry; it was the agonizing, guttural wail of a mother whose soul had been violently ripped from her body.

She turned her face into my chest, sobbing so hard her broken ribs threatened to crack again. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her together while she fell apart.

“My baby,” she wept, her fingers clutching my shirt. “My father... my brothers... they held me down, Adrian. They kicked me until I stopped screaming.”