I was his allergen she was his cure what if this allergen turns lethal? novel Chapter 31

Chapter 3

When my mother fell into a vegetative state seven years ago, my baby was only three months old-too late for an abortion. Between dropping out of school, selling our possessions, and arranging my mother’s hospitalization, I barely had time to process the pregnancy until my belly began to swell.

I needed something to anchor me to this world. The first time I felt my baby’s heartbeat, I abandoned any thought of ending the pregnancy.

During those final months carrying him, I dreamed of confronting Nash, demanding to know why he’d betrayed me so completely. After Julian was born, the hatred faded into a dull ache. I just wanted to see Nash once more, to receive even a single phone call from across the ocean.

But there was nothing, even not a word.

Until at twenty, I met Patrick Thorn, fifteen years my senior. He approached me directly, asking if I needed money. Perhaps worried about my moral objections, he explained his marriage was purely one of convenience and business interests.

When survival itself becomes a luxury, morality becomes irrelevant. So I became his mistress without hesitation.

I don’t fear punishment. Because my punishment began the moment I met Nash Reed.

Nash pursued me to exact revenge on my mother. His first love, Freya Wilcox, had jumped from our school’s rooftop during senior year. She was in my mother’s class-a student whose relationship became infamous because my mother had exposed it.

My mother caught Freya writing a love letter during class and forced her to read it aloud to everyone. When Freya begged and pleaded, my mother snatched the letter and read it herself. The letter was addressed to Nash.

My mother was old-fashioned, believing students should focus solely on academics. She called Freya to her office and berated her for an entire

evening study period.

“How can you face your parents who’ve sacrificed everything for you? How can you face yourself? Instead of focusing on your future, you’re throwing away your potential for some boy! Freya Wilcox, you’re deliberately trying to break my heart!”

Then, ignoring Freya’s tearful pleas, she called her parents.

I still remember that night-her father arrived at school drunk, grabbed a chair from the office, and struck Freya with it. The teachers struggled to restrain him from further violence, but his verbal abuse continued unchecked:

“Just like your whore mother! Goddammit! Did I raise you to chase after boys? You might as well drop out and start selling yourself like she did!”

After that night, Freya Wilcox became the school’s favorite topic of gossip. The once-brilliant student at the top of the honor roll fell overnight, becoming everyone’s punching bag.

She started getting into fights-though I doubt they were not fights, more likely she was being bullied and trying to defend herself.

My mother didn’t see it that way. She believed Freya was deliberately rebelling. Due to multiple disciplinary issues and plummeting grades. Freya lost her scholarship.

The day her scholarship was revoked, Freya visited my mother’s office. I imagine my traditional mother delivered some rigid lecture about the evils of teenage relationships.

I don’t know exactly what was said, but it must have been devastating, because shortly afterward, Freya Wilcox jumped from the school rooftop.

It was after her death that Nash Reed appeared in my otherwise ordinary life.

He went to extraordinary lengths to win me over, until the day our SATS results were released. That’s when he threw my pregnancy test results

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I Was His Allergen She Was The Cure What If This Allawson Tum Latkalb

Chapter 3

in my mother’s face:

“Teacher Blythe, didn’t you say teenage relationships were disgusting? Well, your daughter’s pregnant with my baby-how disgusting is that

now?”

“Too bad your daughter’s child will be just like her-a bastard with no father to claim responsibility.”

The devastation on my mother’s face haunts me still. I’ve relived that moment countless times in my nightmares.

That weathered face showed shock, humiliation, disappointment, and self-blame all at once.

I wanted to apologize through my tears, but her own tears fell first:

“Sienna, it’s Mom’s fault. I didn’t raise you properly. I don’t blame you…”

For eight years, this memory has eaten away at me like a cancer, consuming me piece by piece.

But the nightmare wasn’t finished with me.

Nash jumped out of his car, marched over, and grabbed my collar: “How can you live with yourself so easily? A human being died! After all these years, does your mother still think she was a good teacher?”

“When she wakes up in the midnight, does she remember that she personally handed Freya Wilcox the knife that killed her?”

I couldn’t tell him whether my mother lived with herself easily or not. In her vegetative state, whether she regretted her actions, nobody would ever know.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say. “It was our fault.”

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