The phone rang, shattering the tense silence. It was his friend. "Hey," he said, his voice strained. "I just heard something... shocking. About your wife."
My partner' s heart pounded. "What about her?" he demanded, a cold dread creeping into his chest.
"She's pregnant," his friend blurted out. "Or rather, she was. How could you not know?"
The world spun. Pregnant? My mind raced back to my wife' s call, her calm, resolute voice. The way she had clutched her stomach. The accident in the room. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. It couldn't be.
"Pregnant?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. It felt like the sky was falling, crashing down on his head.
My half-sister, who had been listening intently, gasped. "She's pregnant too?" she asked, her eyes widening.
He didn't answer her. His mind replayed the scene in the hospital room, her pale face, the way she had stumbled. The doctor's hurried whispers. He saw it all in vivid, horrifying detail. My child. His child.
"Oh God," he breathed, a wave of nausea washing over him. "The fall... she might have lost the baby." The thought was a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. Fear, raw and visceral, seized him.
He fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy, and tried to call me. But a cold, robotic voice informed him the number had been blocked. He tried again. Blocked.
"I need to go," he said to my half-sister, already halfway out of his seat. "Something's happened."
She looked disappointed, but quickly composed herself. "Of course, darling," she said, her voice cloying. "Let me come with you. I can help. I can talk to her."
He didn't wait, not even for her. He tossed some cash on the table, a frantic apology to her, and bolted out of the restaurant.
He drove home like a maniac, his mind a whirlwind of fear and regret. The house was dark, silent. "My love?" he called out, his voice echoing in the empty rooms. No answer. "Are you here?"
He rushed into the bedroom, his heart sinking at the sight of the untouched bed. Then he saw it: our wedding photo, his image smiling, mine a savage scratch mark. A cold, hard lump formed in his throat.
On the bedside table, a thick envelope. His name was scrawled across it in my familiar handwriting. His hands trembled as he opened it. Inside, a small tablet, the divorce papers, and a simple silver bracelet he'd given me years ago, now dull and tarnished.
He picked up the tablet. A video file was open. He pressed play, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The video showed my half-sister, her face contorted with hatred, confessing everything. The orchestration of the assault, the manipulative marriage, her pregnancy. His face went ashen. His hands shook so violently he almost dropped the tablet.
My half-sister, who had followed him home, watched the video over his shoulder. "It's a fake!" she shrieked, her voice shrill with panic. "She's trying to frame me! It's edited!"
He didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the screen, then on the scratched-out face in the photograph. The truth, ugly and undeniable, slammed into him.
He pulled out his phone, his fingers still shaking, and called his assistant. "Find her," he barked, his voice raw. "I don't care what it takes. Find her in ten minutes."
His assistant called back almost immediately. "Sir, she's on a flight to London. Just took off."
A brief wave of relief washed over him. London. At least she wasn't... He could still get to her. "Arrange a private jet," he ordered. "I'm going after her. Now."
"Sir," his assistant hesitated, his voice grave. "There's something else. She was at a different hospital. She had a miscarriage. About a week ago."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Miscarriage. His child. His baby. Because of him. Because of his rage, his blindness, his misplaced loyalty. Because he had shoved her.
He staggered, the room spinning. It felt like a giant fist had squeezed his heart, leaving him breathless, broken. My half-sister rushed to his side, trying to steady him.
He recoiled from her touch as if burned. Then, with a sudden, violent surge of rage, he slapped her. Across the face. Hard. The sharp crack echoed in the silent room.
She stared at him, her eyes wide with shock, a crimson mark blossoming on her cheek. "What was that for?!" she shrieked, her voice trembling.
"You murdered my child!" he roared, his voice thick with grief and fury. "You and your mother! You orchestrated all of it! You made me hurt her!"
"It's a lie!" she cried, clutching her stinging cheek. "That video is fake! I swear it!"
He pointed at the scratched wedding photo, his finger trembling. "She made that mark," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "To erase herself from me. Because of you. Because of us." He looked at her with pure loathing. "Get out. Get out of my house. Now."
