The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch.
I quit my job and sold the apartment I'd bought when I married Adrian Roscente. Moving back in with my parents felt like admitting defeat, but I had nowhere else to go.
The internet moved on quickly—new scandals erupted daily, and soon everyone forgot about mine. My life settled into an uneasy quiet.
As for Alina's warning about karma? I'd laughed it off. If cosmic justice existed, why was I still living large? The thought made me snort with derision.
Then, at six months pregnant, I took a bad fall.
Warning signs of miscarriage sent me to the hospital for bed rest. But the next day, my doctor walked in with this weird look on her face.
"Ms. Sophia, you have a communicable disease. Why wasn't this disclosed during admission?"
My stomach dropped. "What are you talking about? I'm perfectly healthy."
She handed me the bloodwork with something close to pity. Most of the numbers meant nothing—until one line jumped out:
HIV positive.
The room spun. I grabbed her sleeve like a drowning woman. "This has to be wrong! Explain this to me!"
"Have you had unprotected intercourse recently?" Her voice stayed clinical. "While false positives occur, these results strongly indicate HIV infection. If exposure was within 72 hours, PEP treatment might still—"
Her words faded into static.
Unprotected sex. Only two men in my entire life—Adrian and that damn masseur, Number 7.
Adrian was clean. I'd seen his tests.
Which meant... that forged health report from the spa. That lying female attendant who swore Number 7 had a vasectomy, that his sperm count was zero—even as his child grew inside me.
Oh God. I'd been walking around infected this whole time.
So this is what Alina meant by 'the worst is yet to come.'
Darkness swallowed me.
When I came to, I demanded new tests. Same result.
At six months, termination was the only mercy for this baby who'd likely inherit my death sentence. The procedure left me hollowed out—physically wrecked, my chance at motherhood gone forever.
After discharge, I went to the prison.
Alina refused to see me. Instead, a guard handed me a note:
"May you rot in hell, repenting every second of your worthless life."
It hit like a sledgehammer. My knees gave out.
For the first time, I truly saw myself—the cruel girl who'd tormented her without remorse. The weight of it crushed me to the concrete floor.
The internet moved on quickly—new scandals erupted daily, and soon everyone forgot about mine. My life settled into an uneasy quiet.
As for Alina's warning about karma? I'd laughed it off. If cosmic justice existed, why was I still living large? The thought made me snort with derision.
Then, at six months pregnant, I took a bad fall.
Warning signs of miscarriage sent me to the hospital for bed rest. But the next day, my doctor walked in with this weird look on her face.
"Ms. Sophia, you have a communicable disease. Why wasn't this disclosed during admission?"
My stomach dropped. "What are you talking about? I'm perfectly healthy."
She handed me the bloodwork with something close to pity. Most of the numbers meant nothing—until one line jumped out:
HIV positive.
The room spun. I grabbed her sleeve like a drowning woman. "This has to be wrong! Explain this to me!"
"Have you had unprotected intercourse recently?" Her voice stayed clinical. "While false positives occur, these results strongly indicate HIV infection. If exposure was within 72 hours, PEP treatment might still—"
Her words faded into static.
Unprotected sex. Only two men in my entire life—Adrian and that damn masseur, Number 7.
Adrian was clean. I'd seen his tests.
Which meant... that forged health report from the spa. That lying female attendant who swore Number 7 had a vasectomy, that his sperm count was zero—even as his child grew inside me.
Oh God. I'd been walking around infected this whole time.
So this is what Alina meant by 'the worst is yet to come.'
Darkness swallowed me.
When I came to, I demanded new tests. Same result.
At six months, termination was the only mercy for this baby who'd likely inherit my death sentence. The procedure left me hollowed out—physically wrecked, my chance at motherhood gone forever.
After discharge, I went to the prison.
Alina refused to see me. Instead, a guard handed me a note:
"May you rot in hell, repenting every second of your worthless life."
It hit like a sledgehammer. My knees gave out.
For the first time, I truly saw myself—the cruel girl who'd tormented her without remorse. The weight of it crushed me to the concrete floor.
End of The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch Chapter 8. View all chapters or return to The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch book page.