Three years ago, he'd stripped me of my dignity. Three years later, he was draining me of my blood.
My hands grew colder. My body began to tremble.
Memories flickered behind my eyes like a dying reel of film.
I was from Harbor City. I had been the youngest chief surgeon in neurosurgery in all of Kensington City. I'd saved countless lives on the operating table.
Then, on my wedding anniversary, a patient's family member broke into our home, doused it in gasoline, and set it ablaze. Then vanished without a trace.
My three-year-old daughter burned alive.
Afterward, Pamela knelt before me, knocking her forehead against the floor over and over.
"Gloria, I'm so sorry. You operated on that patient and it failed, and you... to make it go away, you forced me to sleep with the patient's family. But they still weren't satisfied. It's all my fault. It's all because I couldn't handle it properly—"
Every word out of her mouth was a lie.
But Leon didn't believe me.
No matter how I explained, no matter what I said, Leon refused to believe me.
I was so furious that I grabbed Pamela by the throat. Leon kicked me to the ground and had me committed to the psychiatric facility.