Clenching my fist, I said, “Honey, you’ve always hated the taste of milk. Don’t force yourself to drink it, okay?”
Adriana gave a helpless smile, but her tone left no room for argument.
“Allen, stop being silly. The doctor said the more you dislike food, the more it means your body is lacking it.”
“If I can’t sleep well, the baby won’t rest well either. Don’t you love him the most? For you and our baby, I have to drink it.”
Without giving me a chance to stop her, she lifted the glass and downed the milk in one swift motion.
Adriana... were you really that afraid my child would stand in Khalil’s way?
Or was it simply that, in your heart, only a child with him was worth having?
I shut my eyes in despair.
Not even thirty minutes later, the effects of the drug began to show. Adriana curled up on the bed, her body trembling in agony, sweat pouring down her face.
She had barely finished her call to her private doctor when he stepped through the door—as if he had been waiting right outside the whole time.
Even though I’d been through this seven times before, losing another child still felt like having my heart torn apart.
In a daze, I heard the doctor say, “Sir, this time, the bleeding was more severe than any of the previous miscarriages. I’m afraid her reproductive system may be permanently damaged. She likely won’t be able to conceive again.”
I felt the blood in my veins freeze. My hands went ice-cold.
Adriana said nothing. Her eyes were red as she looked at me with guilt.
“Allen, please don’t worry. Even if we can’t have children, I still love you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”
This woman—who had grown up as a pampered heiress—had just suffered another miscarriage, and yet she held my hands against her chest, gently trying to warm them with her own body. Even in sleep, she refused to let go.
Late that night, she murmured in her sleep, “Khalil, don’t be afraid. I’ll make sure you get the happiness you deserve.”
The tears I had been holding back finally burst forth.
At our wedding, she had also promised to give me happiness.
But now I see—it was just a lie to stop me from interfering with Khalil.
And I realized, everything about our marriage had been one enormous, cruel joke.
Inhaling sharply, I sent a message to my childhood friend overseas.
[You mentioned wanting me to travel the world with you. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll come find you in Australia the day after tomorrow.]
As I put down my phone, the pain in my chest became unbearable.
I had just lost another child—and this time, it had been murdered by his own mother.
I locked myself in the bathroom, memories of the past three years with Adriana flashing through my mind.
Silent tears slid down my face.
As I stood, my phone slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.
When I bent down to pick it up, I noticed something hidden beneath the sink cabinet—wrapped layer after layer in expensive silk, as if it were a treasured artifact.
I unwrapped it—and found a thick photo album.
It contained every photo of Khalil from the age of 15 to 28.
I recognized the cover—it was the same one I’d once seen in Adriana’s office.
Adriana had always loved photography.
Though technically Melissa’s aunt, she was only a few years older than us. When we were kids, she always carried herself with a cold, aloof demeanor—watching Melissa and me play from the sidelines, as if our games were too childish to bother with.
Then, when we were fifteen, Khalil approached me, asking if we could be friends. I saw he was always alone, so I introduced him to both Melissa and Adriana.
Looking back, it must have started then.
From that moment on, Adriana began joining our outings. She also started learning photography.
I thought it was just part of growing up—her coming out of her shell.
But now I understand—she had met someone she liked.
Most of the photos in the album were ones I had never seen. They captured Khalil in moments even I hadn’t noticed: every smile, every frown, every glance, even a casual stretch—she had preserved them all through her lens.
