Chapter 1: The Fifty Strikes
I realized I was counting only when the belt came down again.
“Fifty.””
The number left my mouth as a whisper, almost like I was reading the final line of a sentence I never wanted to finish.
I lay curled on the cold marble floor of our bedroom, one hand wrapped around my stomach and the other pressed against the carpet beneath me. My seven-month pregnant body trembled with every breath. My daughter moved violently inside me, as if even she understood that something was terribly wrong.
Gero Brandt stood above me, holding his leather belt in one hand.
Not shaking.
Not crying.
Not looking like a man who had just destroyed the woman carrying his child.
He looked calm.
That was the part I would remember forever.
Not the shouting. Not the pain. Not even the fear.
The calmness.
“Do you understand now?”” he asked.
His voice was low, almost gentle.
That made it worse.
I stared at the expensive watch on his wrist, the same watch his friends had admired at dinner parties. The same wrist that had held my hand when we first met. The same man who used to tell everyone, “My wife is my whole world.””
Now he was waiting for my answer like I was a child who had failed an exam.
“I understand,” I whispered.
My lips were split from biting them too hard. I could taste blood.
“Good.””
He folded the belt slowly.
Dinner had been fifteen minutes late.
That was my crime.
Fifteen minutes.
The chicken had gone cold because I had spent extra time in the nursery, arranging the blankets and folding the tiny clothes we had bought for our baby girl. I had been smiling when I heard the front door open.
I remembered thinking, Gero is home.
I remembered thinking, Maybe tonight will be different.
For the first few seconds, he had smiled.
“Why isn’t dinner ready?”” he asked.
I laughed nervously.
“Your train arrived earlier than usual. I thought you’d be home in another fifteen minutes.””
That was the wrong answer.
I learned long ago that with Gero, there were always wrong answers.
“You always have an excuse,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I’ll heat it up right now.””
But apologies were never enough anymore.
They had stopped being enough eighteen months earlier.
The first time he hit me, he cried afterward.
He brought me flowers the next morning.
He sat beside me on the bed, holding my hands, his eyes full of regret.
“I don’t know what happened to me,” he said.
I wanted to believe him.
I needed to believe him.
Then came the rules.
Don’t visit your sister too often.
Don’t talk about our problems.
Don’t embarrass me.
Don’t make me angry.
Then came the isolation.
Then came the apologies.
Then came the belt.
And every time, I convinced myself that surviving one more day was easier than admitting the truth.
Gero was not going to change.
He finished adjusting his tie in the mirror as if he hadn’t just left me on the floor.
His phone rang.
The transformation happened instantly.
It was almost impressive.
The cold expression disappeared. His shoulders relaxed. A warm smile appeared on his face.
“Rüdiger!”” he said cheerfully.
“Of course I’m coming to dinner tonight.””
I watched him step over my body to reach his jacket.
“Absolutely. No, no, everything is perfect here.””
He glanced at me.
Then smiled.
“My wife is just tired from the pregnancy.””
I felt something inside me break.
Not from pain.
From hearing him lie so easily.
He grabbed his keys.
Before leaving, he looked back.
“Clean yourself up before anyone sees you.””
Then he walked out.
The front door closed.
The silence afterward was louder than any scream.
For several minutes, I didn’t move.
I just listened.
The ticking clock.
The hum of the air conditioner.
The sound of my own breathing.
Then my baby kicked again.
That was when fear finally pushed through the numbness.
I forced myself to sit up.
“Hey,” I whispered, placing both hands over my stomach.
“Stay with me, little one.””
My voice cracked.
“I’m sorry.””
I hated that those were the words I said first.
Not I’m going to save us.
Not I’m leaving.
Just sorry.
Because that was what Gero had taught me to become.
Someone who apologized for being hurt.
I crawled toward the bathroom.
Every movement felt impossible. The house that once felt like a dream now looked like a prison decorated with expensive furniture.
The marble floors.
The designer paintings.
The perfect family photographs.
Everything looked beautiful from the outside.
Nobody would ever guess what happened behind those walls.
I turned on the bathtub faucet and climbed in fully dressed.
The cold water shocked me.
Good.
I needed something to cut through the fog in my mind.
Slowly, the water around me changed.
The fabric of my maternity clothes became heavy.
My hands shook as I reached for my phone.
The screen lit up.
Three words stared back at me.
*Papa.*
My father.
Thomas Brand.
Retired Bundeswehr officer.
The man who taught me how to stand straight when I was afraid.
The man who always told me, “Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is moving while you’re afraid.””
One call.
That was all it would take.
He would come.
I knew him.
He would not ask questions first. He would not wait. He would not negotiate with Gero.
He would protect me.
But then I heard Gero’s voice in my head.
Tell anyone, and I’ll make sure your father knows what kind of wife you really are.
He had said it three weeks earlier after I mentioned visiting my family.
He had laughed afterward.
“You think your father will believe you?””
That question had haunted me.
Because for a long time, I didn’t believe myself either.
I looked down at my hands.
I had spent so long hiding bruises.
Making excuses.
Wearing long sleeves in summer.
Pretending everything was normal.
My thumb hovered over my father’s name.
Then something caught my attention.
A tiny blinking red light.
I froze.
Across the hallway, near the doorway of the nursery, a small camera stared back at me.
The nursery camera.
I had almost forgotten about it.
Gero had installed it two months ago because he said he wanted to “keep an eye on the baby’s room.””
I had hated the idea at first.
It felt unnecessary.
But he insisted.
“It’s for safety,” he said.
Safety.
The word almost made me laugh.
My hands shook as I opened the camera app.
The recording loaded.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
There he was.
Gero.
Standing in our bedroom.
Holding the belt.
And there I was.
On the floor.
Small.
Terrified.
Unable to fight back.
I watched.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I needed to.
The screen showed every moment I had tried to convince myself wasn’t real.
Every strike.
Every insult.
Every second when he looked completely in control.
My stomach turned.
For the first time, I wasn’t seeing it through fear.
I was seeing it as another person would.
And another person would have called the police.
Another person would have run.
Another person would have said:
This is abuse.
I saved the video immediately.
Then again.
And again.
Three different accounts.
Three copies.
My fingers moved faster than my thoughts.
When I finished, I stared at the screen.
The proof existed.
He could not erase it.
He could not tell me I was exaggerating.
He could not make me question myself anymore.
I pressed my father’s name.
Then stopped.
Not yet.
First, I called Dr. Patrizia Richter, my gynecologist.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Anna? Is everything okay?””
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
The tears arrived before the words.
“Doctor…”
Her voice changed instantly.
“What happened?””
I looked at the nursery camera.
At the saved video.
At my reflection in the dark window.
“I need you to see me,” I whispered.
There was a pause.
Then her voice became firm.
“Come to the clinic now.””
“I don’t know if I can explain—”
“You don’t need to explain everything over the phone,” she said.
“Just come.””
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a taxi, wearing the same clothes from the bathtub.
I kept one hand on my stomach.
The other held my phone.
The evidence was there.
For the first time in eighteen months, I felt something besides fear.
Hope.
When Dr. Richter opened the examination room door, her expression changed the moment she saw me.
Her eyes moved from my face to my arms.
Then lower.
She didn’t speak for several seconds.
Finally, she whispered:
“Anna… who did this to you?””
I looked down.
My voice barely worked.
But this time, I didn’t lie.
“My husband.””
The room went completely silent.
Dr. Richter carefully picked up her phone.
“Anna, I need you to understand something.””
I looked at her.
“What?””
Her eyes were serious.
“After I document these injuries, I am calling someone.””
My heart stopped.
“Who?””
She looked at the file in her hand.
Then at me.
“Your father.””
Before I could answer, her office phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
And her face changed.
May you like
Because the person calling wasn’t my father.
It was Gero.
