"Anya, after your shower, go to bed early. Don't catch a cold. I promise I'll make it official tomorrow—you'll be my new assistant," Tristan said, his voice warm, dripping with a false gentleness that had once been mine.
I stood just outside the hospital door, my fingers curling against the door frame until my knuckles turned white. The muffled sounds of their laughter pierced through the crack. Then came the onslaught of kisses, wet and desperate, accompanied by hushed giggles and the sound of skin brushing against fabric. My chest tightened, each sound a dagger that drove deeper.
I didn't know what hurt more—my shattered spirit or my battered body. My legs felt weak and I leaned against the door for support. I no longer had the strength to bear this.
That evening, Tristan stumbled into our room, reeking of alcohol. His gait was uneven, but his face glowed with an eerie cheerfulness. His eyes held a spark of glee, but it wasn't for me.
"I brought you something to eat. Get up and have a bite," he said, his tone brusque yet oddly playful. He placed a container on the nightstand, then reached down to help me sit up.
The scent of steamed dumplings wafted through the air, stirring a pang of nausea in my stomach. My gaze fell on the transparent container. It was only half full, the edges smudged with soy sauce. Someone had already eaten the rest.
I forced a smile, my lips dry and cracking under the strain. "I remember Anya loved steamed dumplings the most," I said, my voice quiet but deliberate.
The light in Tristan's eyes dimmed instantly. His playful demeanor froze and an impatient frown crept across his face. He sighed heavily, as if I had ruined some perfect illusion. After a pause, he adjusted his tone, layering it with forced patience.
"Why bring her up now? Aren't we married? You're even carrying our child."
His hand reached out, brushing against my stomach. The touch was light, almost tender, but it burned like ice against my skin. He didn't know—the child he spoke of, the one he had never truly cared for, was long gone. Nothing remained now, not even the possibility of life.
"Yes, we're married," I replied, my voice brittle, each word tasting of ash.
Tristan didn't notice the bitterness in my tone. He turned away, heading toward the bathroom, his movements quick and restless. I watched his reflection on the glass door, his face strained as he raised his phone to his ear.
"Did you tell Zara you've returned to the country?" His voice was low but sharp, each word cutting like a blade. "I'm already in a mess right now. Give me some time and I'll sort this out."
My chest tightened as I listened. So, he was planning to end this marriage. But for whom? The sharp sound of a scream from his phone broke my thoughts.
"I don't care! I'm coming over now!" the woman on the other end cried, her voice shrilled with desperation.
Tristan slammed his fist against the bathroom wall, the sound echoing through the room. He looked cornered, his vulnerability raw and exposed. For all his posturing, Tristan had always been fragile, breaking under the weight of his lies.
"What's going on?" I called out, feigning concern.
"Nothing," he replied quickly, his voice uneven. "Something fell."
Moments later, the bathroom light flicked off and he emerged, carrying the coolness of the night with him. Sliding into bed beside me, he pulled the blanket over my shoulders and spoke in a coaxing tone.
"Now that you're pregnant, you should rest more. Go to sleep."
But his eyes, reflecting the pale moonlight, weren't on me. They were distant, lost in thoughts of someone else.
I lay stiffly, my back to him, pretending to sleep. The silence stretched on until he suddenly turned, his movements abrupt, his expression tense. I felt his gaze on me, searching, but I didn't move.
Eventually, he slipped out of bed. The soft creak of the door was followed by voices in the hall.
"I told you I'd come to see you tomorrow," Tristan said, his tone edged with frustration.
A woman's voice, trembling with sobs, replied, "And I told you I want to see you today. If you won't come to me, then I'll come to you. Don't you love me?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. My chest tightened as I waited for his answer, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
Finally, I heard him speak, his voice low and hoarse. "I do."
Two words. Short, simple and yet they shattered everything.
Lying there in the dark, my vision blurred with tears, I clutched the blanket tightly to my chest. Those words weren't for me. They never had been.
