I thought maybe, just maybe, the nightmare had ended. I’d patched myself up after the earlier fall—scraped arms, bruised knees, ribs aching—but for a few fleeting hours, sleep had come. I told myself to rest. To hold onto silence. To taste even a hint of peace.
But peace had long since abandoned this house. Before the first hint of dawn, I was jerked from my bed.
My back slammed into the floor with a gut-wrenching thud, sharp pain lancing through my spine. I gasped, vision blurring, and tried to lift myself—but the impact left my body trembling, weak and disoriented.
Then came a high-pitched giggle, a shrill, playful laugh that cut through the morning air.
I looked up to see him—the child. Julian. The same little tyrant who’d hit me with a tin can just hours ago. The one everyone here worshipped like some prince of a kingdom. He was bouncing on my bed now, as if it were his personal trampoline.
“I want to sleep here!” he shrieked, tossing pillows around like fireworks.
“This is my bed,” I ground out, teeth clenched. I tried to keep my tone gentle—he was only a child, after all. But then again… he was the reason I’d fallen. The reason I slept alone. The living embodiment of betrayal.
I took a deep breath, trying once more. “Go back to your room, sweetie.”
He ignored me, spinning in circles, squealing, stomping. Until his little foot collided with the stand holding my father’s final gift—an antique ceramic vase he had painstakingly crafted before he died.
It shattered.
Time seemed to freeze. The fragments scattered across the hardwood like broken memories, like the echo of my own heart breaking. Without thinking, I grabbed Julian’s arm. “Do you know what you’ve done?” I hissed. “That was the last thing I had from my father!”
The boy froze, eyes wide, then dissolved into tears.
Footsteps pounded outside, and Isabelle stormed in. Her eyes widened in horror when she saw me gripping Julian’s wrist. “What did you do?! You hurt my son!”
“I didn’t! He—he broke something important—” I tried to explain.
“You think we’re not trying to adapt, Vanessa?!” she screamed. “You hate us being here, I get it—but this is a child! How could you?”
“I didn’t even—” I stammered, but the words died in my throat.
Dominic appeared in the doorway. His gaze skipped over the shards, ignored the blood on my hand. It locked on Julian’s tears instead.
Then his palm connected with my cheek.
I staggered back, air stolen from my lungs, eyes wide. Dominic had never hit me before, never raised his hand in anger. Never.
“You… slapped me?” I whispered. “Because of him?”
“He’s not just some random kid!” Dominic growled. “He’s my heir! I’m adopting him. He will carry my name!”
I laughed bitterly, disbelief choking me. “Adopting? Really? Or is that just what we’re calling it? Tell me the truth, Dominic. He’s yours, isn’t he?”
He said nothing.
Not yes. Not no.
But the silence said everything. Heavy, suffocating, undeniable. His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped for a fraction of a second—and that was all the confirmation I needed. Every glance, every touch, every unspoken word between him and that boy screamed the truth.
My heart fractured again.
I remembered the ultrasound tucked in my purse. The name we had picked together. The gentle strokes I pressed to my belly, dreaming of bedtime stories, soft coos, tiny feet padding across the floor. Our daughter.
Gone. Torn from me.
And here he was, flaunting a child born of lies and deceit, claiming it as his legacy—while mine never even got a chance to exist.
He stepped closer, voice colder now, ice threading through every word. “I won’t let you hurt him. You can’t carry a child anymore. Don’t take your anger out on an innocent.”
Anger? Jealousy?
My knees quivered, but I planted my feet firmly. He had no idea. He would never understand. This wasn’t jealousy.
I was mourning.
And he had buried my future.
“Jealousy?” I spat, voice cracking. “I didn’t choose to be kidnapped! I didn’t choose to have my baby ripped from me—you made sure of that!”
“Watch your tone,” he warned, yanking a fistful of my hair. “Apologize to Isabelle. Now.”
“No—”
“Apologize!”
He shoved me down into the jagged shards of the broken vase. Pain shot through my knees. I bit my lip until I tasted coppery blood.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Isabelle stepped forward, offering a soft, sweet smile. “It’s fine. I forgive you.”
As she leaned close, her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now you understand, Vanessa. Julian and I… we are everything in this house. Maybe it’s time you quietly disappear.”
I met her gaze, voice barely audible. “Don’t worry. I will.”
I turned to leave.
But Isabelle cried out with a fake gasp, flinging herself backward onto the floor. “Dominic! She pushed me!”
Of course, he came running. Not to me. Never to me.
He checked her arms for marks, muttered curses under his breath, and carried her away, leaving me bleeding among the shards.
I didn’t cry. Couldn’t. There were no tears left in me.
Later that night, a notification blinked on my phone. An email from the lawyer.
The divorce was filed. Only his signature remained.
I stared at it for long minutes before printing the papers.
I found Dominic in the lounge, seated beside Isabelle, who sipped wine in silk as though she hadn’t just destroyed my life. He pressed a kiss to her hand, fairy-tale perfect.
“I need your signature,” I said quietly, steady, calm.
He looked up, irritation curling his lips. “Don’t you know how to knock? After everything you did to her?”
“I just need your signature,” I repeated. “It’s for the hospital. For when… when we lost our baby.”
He rolled his eyes, snatched the pen, and scribbled across the page without a glance. “Done. Now leave.”
