Dear Ex-wife Marry Me

In the dimly-lit basement, a hive of activity buzzed around the frail figure of a woman. A doctor hovered Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

over her, his medical expertise focused on the mystery of her condition, while the construction team's

foreman examined the structure of the concrete tomb that had been her prison.

Two days had passed, and the construction crew had come up empty-handed. It was the doctor who

had the slightest glimmer of progress to report.

"Mr. Sanders," the doctor said, the concern etched into his furrowed brow, "she seems to have lost the

ability to communicate, almost as if she's forgotten how to interact with people. And it's clear someone

has modified her body."

Beck stiffened. His connection with Cynthia, the woman before him, was tenuous at best—shared

blood, but little else. Yet the news struck a chord within him, a pang of pain for a stranger who was

family.

"Modified? What do you mean by that?" Beck's voice was tight with barely contained anger.

"It appears that several of her bones have been removed and replaced with some kind of mechanical

devices. They've been integrated so long, they've practically become a part of her. The purpose isn't

clear—could be for communication, maybe control. There might be a chip involved, but this tech's

beyond anything I've seen. Even with the state-of-the-art equipment, it's a challenge."

The thought of Cynthia enduring such agony during the removal of her bones made Maja feel sick to

her stomach. Without hesitation, she approached the bed and took Cynthia's hands in hers.

But Cynthia reacted violently to the contact, swatting Maja away and retreating into a corner, her body

shaking uncontrollably.

The last time Ian's men tried to remove her, she'd reacted just as violently. She'd been locked away for

so long, should fear not have faded? Why would she shrink from human touch?

The doctor, meticulously noting her reactions, adjusted his glasses.

The Sanders family had summoned the best in the field for this—a team of top-notch professionals, not

just in medicine, but in every aspect related to the underground chamber's secrets.

"Mr. Sanders," the doctor continued, "she most likely suffers from PTSD."

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the doctor explained, was a condition unrelated to one's fear of death.

It was a psychological response to sustained trauma.

Maja's hand, slapped away, hovered in the air as she watched Cynthia curl up on the bed, silent and

fragile, like a beautiful butterfly with its wings clipped. The strong, indomitable Lillian she once knew

seemed so distant now.

"What causes her PTSD?" Maja whispered, her heart aching at the sight.

"Suppose, at first, she didn't fear human contact. Imagine people coming into this basement daily,

violating her space, maybe not physically, but by relishing her struggle to survive. The fear of touch

would grow."

Maja's fists clenched, her breath coming in shaky gasps.

Maja bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears. She knew all too well the humiliation of incontinence, a

common result of intense electric shocks. And to think, Cynthia's most private agonies were on display,

critiqued by unseen eyes. Updated at Drąmanovеls.cоm

The doctor, realizing Maja had grasped the horrific truth, sighed heavily.