Loving You Was My Poison

Isa's POV

I used to think my husband, Vito Castro, suffered from mania.

For three years, I endured all his violence with my body, loving him with everything I had, trying desperately to heal him.

Until today, I finally realized—his illness was FAKE. And I was his deliberate target for torture.

The day my husband pushed me down the stairs, I lost our child.

Three hours earlier, Vito had answered a phone call.

After hanging up, his eyes turned blood-red. Like a caged animal finally unleashed, he smashed every antique vase in the living room before shoving me—who was only trying to calm him—violently down the spiral staircase.

Blood stained the Persian carpet. Taking my unborn child with it.

The doctor said it was another episode of his mania. Over three years, I'd grown accustomed to this violence.

I thought this was what I OWED him.

Three years ago, during the great New York mafia war, Vito's first love, Elena, was kidnapped by a rival family.

I'd heard the rival family set a trap to take Vito's life. To save him, I blocked his path desperately, begging him not to go alone, to wait for backup.

But I never imagined that because of my interference and pleading—

The warehouse where Elena was held EXPLODED.

When Vito learned the news, he rushed to the scene in devastation, only to suffer a horrific car accident on the way. Severe leg injuries left him wheelchair-bound for life, and he developed serious mania.

Since then, I became his wife. And his punching bag.

For three years, every manic episode, I endured in silence. Cigarette burns, vase cuts, hands around my throat—my body was covered in scars, large and small.

The doctor said I'd been to the ER at least seven times.

Friends urged me to leave, saying this wasn't love—it was self-destruction.

But I knew. This was what I OWED him.

I was the one who stopped him, causing Elena to die in that explosion. My hesitation cost him both legs and the woman he loved.

I should spend the rest of my life making amends.

I thought if I was strong enough, he'd forgive me eventually. I thought carrying his child would be our chance to start over.

Until I woke up from my miscarriage surgery.

In the VIP hospital room, I lay weak in bed, tearing pain radiating from my abdomen.

Flashes from the operating table invaded my mind—

Cold instruments stirring inside my body, stripping away that life that had existed for only two months. No anesthesia. The doctor said my body couldn't handle it.

But I barely felt the pain—because a deeper agony had already numbed my entire being.

I wanted water. Struggling to sit up, I heard Vito's man speaking outside the door.

"Don, your wife lost the baby. This time... wasn't it too much?"

Every muscle in my body locked up. I couldn't breathe.

Then, Vito's voice came through.

No mania. No loss of control. Only a chilling calmness that made my blood run cold.

"Too much? She doesn't GET to complain." He laughed coldly. "If she hadn't held me back three years ago, Elena would still be HERE. Not brain-damaged in Sicily with that prick Joe. I should've been the first one by her side, but now? She's playing house with that bastard while I'm stuck in this GODDAMN chair!"

"Three years of her suffering? Doesn't even come CLOSE to what I've been through losing Elena! That kid? Good riddance. She doesn't deserve to carry a Castro heir."

He paused, his voice dropping to something almost bitter. "Elena sent me a photo today. She's pregnant. After three years, she's finally got her happy ending."

I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.

Elena was ALIVE? She was PREGNANT? So that phone call three hours ago—

"Don..." His man seemed about to say something.

"Whatever. Time to move on." Vito cut him off, his tone shifting to something eerily calm. "I've been too hard on Isa these past three years. When I got that call today, I really did lose it—couldn't hold back. But since Elena's moved on, I should too. I'll treat Isa better from now on. Kids... we can always have more."

My breathing became ragged.

So all his mania, loss of control, brutality these three years—ALL OF IT WAS AN ACT?

He wasn't sick. He just HATED me.

Those nights I held his trembling body when he woke from nightmares. Those times he broke down crying after losing control. I thought he needed me. I thought he was suffering too.

But he was AWAKE through all of it.

Awake as he watched me kneel before him apologizing. Awake as he watched me, beaten bloody, still whispering "I'm sorry." Awake as he watched my careful, hopeful joy when I got pregnant.

Then awake as he pushed me down the stairs.

Killing our child.

All to punish me. Because I made him miss Elena.

Now that Elena had found happiness, he was ready to "move on," ready to "treat me better."

But what about MY child? What about these three years of HELL?

I bit my lip hard, tasting thick blood. Tears fell silently as my mouth twisted into something uglier than crying.

Three years. I thought if I tried harder, endured a little longer, he'd eventually forgive me.

Turns out, I'd been lying to myself this whole time.

My phone rang abruptly.

I answered mechanically.

"Isa!" My friend Sophia's excited voice burst through. "I convinced Dr. Gray! He finally agreed to treat Vito! You were going crazy trying to find someone, remember? Finally—"

"No need." I cut her off.

My voice was terrifyingly calm.

"What?" Sophia froze. "Isa, are you OUT OF YOUR MIND? Dr. Gray's family died in a mafia shootout—he HATES our world more than anything. You knelt outside his house for an entire NIGHT just to make him agree! Now he says yes, and you're saying NO?"

I closed my eyes.

These three years, to cure Vito's mania, I'd done everything.

Begged every psychiatrist in New York. Prayed at churches, sought priests for exorcisms. Had people bring calming incense from India, meditation masters from Japan to treat psychological trauma.

Western medicine, Eastern medicine, therapy, hypnosis. As long as there was a shred of hope—even from charlatans—I was willing to try.

I thought if I worked hard enough, I'd find a way to heal him.

But he never needed treatment.

Because he was NEVER sick.

"Sophia," I smiled bitterly. "No need. Because I'm filing for divorce."

The moment the words left my mouth, the hospital room door slammed open.

"Divorce?" Vito sat in his wheelchair, face thunderous as he appeared in the doorway. "What the HELL did you just say to me, Isa?"