---- Chapter 6 | was floating in a dark, silent void. There were flashes, nightmarish fragments of sensation. Hands on my body, violating, cruel. Laughter, a chorus of monstrous glee. And pain. A relentless, tearing pain that centered in my womb. | woke up on the cold, hard floor of the Grand Oak Pavilion. The elegant ballroom was a wreck. Empty bottles, overturned chairs, and the sticky residue of spilled drinks littered the floor. And blood. So much blood. It was pooled beneath me, staining my dress, my legs, my hands. The sun was streaming through the large windows, a cheerful, mocking light. The party was over. They had all left me here. | tried to move, and a fresh wave of agony shot through me. | looked down at my body, at the horrifying evidence of the night's brutality. My dress was torn, my skin was covered in bruises. And my belly... my once round, firm belly was now soft and empty. A primal scream of pure, undiluted grief tore from my throat. My baby. My son. He was gone. | fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with blood. | had to call for help. | dialed 911, my voice a broken, sobbing mess as ---- | tried to explain what had happened. Then | called Derek. It went straight to voicemail. | called Else. Voicemail. | called Edison. Voicemail. They had turned off their phones. They had left me here to bleed to death. Panic gave way to a surge of adrenaline. | would not die here. | would not let them win. | dragged my broken body across the floor, leaving a smear of blood in my wake. It was an agonizing, slow journey to the door. Every movement was a fresh wave of torture. | don' t remember much after that. The next thing | knew, | was waking up in a hospital bed. The room was sterile and white, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic. A kind-faced doctor stood by my bed, her expression grim. "Mrs. Hubbard," she said softly. "I'm so sorry. You suffered a severe trauma. You miscarried." The words, though expected, hit me with the force of a physical blow. | stared at the white ceiling, my mind a hollow, echoing chamber of pain. "The fetus was... it was severely damaged," the doctor continued, her voice filled with pity. "We had to perform an emergency procedure." | felt nothing. The pain was so immense it had become a part of me, a cold, dead weight in the center of my being. ---- "What... what do you do with the... the remains?" | asked, my voice flat and emotionless. The doctor looked taken aback. "We can arrange for a respectful disposal, of course. Or, if you wish..." "No," | interrupted. "| want them. | want them sent by courier." | gave her the address of the Grand Oak Pavilion. And | gave her a name. Derek Hubbard. The scene shifts. Derek, Else, and Edison, along with a few other friends, are returning to the pavilion the next day. They are hungover, laughing about the events of the previous night. "Did you see her face?" Else is saying, giggling. "Priceless." "The best part is, she won't remember a thing," Edison adds, clapping Derek on the back. "Clean slate." As they approach the entrance, the manager of the pavilion runs out to meet them, his face pale and frantic. "Mr. Hubbard! Thank God you're here! There was... an incident. A terrible incident." "What are you talking about?" Derek asks, his brow furrowing with irritation. "Your wife... she... the police, the ambulance... there was blood everywhere..." the manager stammers. ---- Derek's face drains of color. Before he can respond, a courier on a bicycle pulls up to the curb. "Package for Derek Hubbard," the courier says, holding out a small, insulated box. "Signature required." A strange sense of foreboding washes over Derek. His hands tremble as he signs the electronic pad. He takes the box. It feels strangely heavy. He hesitates, a feeling of dread coiling in his stomach. His friends gather around him, curious. "What is it?" Else asks, peering over his shoulder. With a deep breath, Derek opens the box. The room is filled with a collective gasp of horror. Else lets out a piercing, blood-curdling scream. Derek stares down, his mind refusing to process what he is seeing. Inside the box, nestled on a bed of ice, are the small, bloody, and mangled remains of a fetus. His son. His knees buckle. He collapses to the ground, the box falling from his hands, its horrific contents spilling onto the pristine pavement. Amidst the blood and tissue, a small, white card is visible. It ' s the back of the sonogram picture Else had posted. Derek picks it up, his hands shaking violently. On it, written in ---- what he recognizes as my handwriting, are five simple words. "You won the bet."