I lost my sight about ten years years ago, which was the only reason my younger sister dared to use me as her substitute, allowing me to stay by Tristan's side for six whole years. During that time, Tristan was the epitome of gentleness, transforming into what everyone admired as a devoted husband. I didn't even need a cane—he cared for me so attentively that he became a model spouse in the eyes of others.
But when I finally overcame countless obstacles to restore my sight and rushed to him, the first words I heard were, "For Anya, I wasted six years taking care of a blind woman. Now that Zara's pregnant, I doubt Anya will remain indifferent."
That same night, a traffic violation ticket landed in my hands. The surveillance footage showed Tristan and Anya tangled in passion inside his car. I ended everything without hesitation. Yet, the man who once dismissed me as a blind woman was the one who unraveled first.
***
"Mrs. Anders, your eyes have recovered remarkably well. All those days of regular injections and diligent treatment have paid off. It's heartbreaking to see how much you've suffered, especially with side effects like vomiting," the doctor said, his tone gentle yet professional.
The office was bright and sterile, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence. As soon as the doctor finished speaking, the nurses broke into smiles, their warm congratulations surrounding me. Their faces were kind, their words genuine, but they only added to the ache in my chest.
I had endured months of searing pain from daily injections, my body bruised and exhausted. My sole motivation had been Tristan—to surprise him, to see his face light up when I opened my eyes for the first time in years. But now, their cheerful voices grated against the memory of his words, the first ones I'd heard with my restored vision: "For Anya, I wasted six years taking care of a blind woman. Now that Zara is pregnant, I doubt she'll still remain indifferent."
If these kind-hearted people knew the truth, would they still congratulate me?
The side effects of the treatments had ravaged me—days spent clinging to the cold porcelain of our bathroom, my stomach twisting violently as I vomited over and over. Tristan would pat my back absentmindedly, his comforting words slowly fading as the weeks dragged on. Now, looking back, it all seemed grotesquely futile.
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Anders, isn't your husband picking you up today? He must be overjoyed," a nurse said brightly, her tone full of genuine delight.
I froze, forcing a weak smile to my lips as I lowered my gaze. My fingers curled tightly into my palms, the nails biting into my skin until the color drained from my hands. "He's busy with work today," I murmured. "I can manage on my own."
The nurse nodded sympathetically, but her comment lingered in the air like a taunt. Tristan had been there for every treatment at the start. His presence had been reassuring, his hand steadying me through every injection. The staff had adored him, calling him a "model husband." But somewhere along the way, his visits became sporadic. Then they stopped altogether.
I glanced down at my phone, at the curt message he'd sent earlier: [Team-building event tonight. I'll be home late.]
I wanted to laugh, but the sound wouldn't come. Was it truly work, or just another excuse? My answer came hours later when a coworker's live stream popped up on social media. Tristan's face, so familiar and once so comforting, now twisted the knife deeper. He was seated close to Anya, their heads bent together in private conversation. Every accidental brush of their hands sparked something electric between them, the kind of connection he used to share with me.
I thought I wanted to see again. In that moment, I almost wished for my blindness back. At least then, I wouldn't have to witness the truth.
But there was something more urgent I had to face. My footsteps echoed through the hospital's quiet corridors until I reached the obstetrics and gynecology department. The sterile air prickled at my skin as I sat in the waiting room, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. Hours passed before I finally made my way to the operating table.
"Are you certain you want to go through with this? The procedure carries risks, especially after all you've been through," the doctor said, her voice tinged with concern.
My breath hitched, my resolve faltering for a heartbeat. But then Tristan's cruel words replayed in my mind: "This child is nothing more than a tool to make Anya jealous."
My nails dug into my palms once more, grounding me in the icy reality of my situation. I swallowed hard and nodded.
The cold instruments pressed against my body, their touch clinical and unfeeling. But no physical pain could compare to the chill of Tristan's words, their venom sinking deeper into my soul.
And yet, just that morning, he had cupped my face in his hands, his lips warm and tender against mine. "Be good and stay home," he'd said. "I'll take you out for dinner tonight."
I'd believed him. Six years by his side and I'd convinced myself that my love could thaw the ice in his heart. But it had all been an illusion—a cruel mirage.
As I left the operating room, my phone buzzed with a call. Anya's voice was sharp and unapologetic. "Tristan said you're pregnant. Get rid of it, will you? A bastard is still a bastard. Did you really think a baby would keep him?"
Her words hit like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, but then I heard it—a male voice in the background, low and unmistakably familiar. Tristan.
