At eight months pregnant, I thought his new car meant we were finally starting over. But the moment I touched the seat, he snapped, “Don’t sit in it! A pregnant woman in a new car is bad luck!” I clutched my belly. “Please… it hurts. Just take me home.” He shoved me hard—my knees hit the ground. “I said get out!” The door slammed. Tires screamed. And as he sped away, I tasted blood and made a promise: that car won’t be the only thing he loses. I’m coming back for everything that’s mine.

The Price of a Shine

Chapter 1: The Curse of Leather

At eight months pregnant, hope is a fragile thing. It’s thin, like the skin stretched over my swollen belly, easily bruised and aching for relief. I thought my husband’s new car was that relief. I thought it was a sign that the chaos of the last year—Jason’s job hopping, the unpaid bills he blamed on “bad energy,” the silent dinners—was finally over.

When he pulled into the driveway, the vehicle gleamed like a predatory animal in the fading winter light. A glossy black SUV, zero miles, smelling of factory air and promise. I actually smiled. For the first time in months, I felt the corners of my mouth lift without effort.

“Is it ours?” I asked, waddling out to the porch, rubbing my stomach instinctively.

He beamed like a kid who had just unwrapped the biggest present under the tree. “Brand-new. Zero miles. Don’t touch anything.”

I laughed, a short, breathless sound. I assumed he was joking. I reached for the passenger door handle, eager to sit, to rest my swollen ankles, to feel like we were a normal couple celebrating a win.

The moment my fingers brushed the cold metal, Jason’s face snapped.