After that, Evan never came near me. If I tried to sit closer on the couch or reach for his hand, he would inch away, always with some detached explanation ready.
He would say, “Pregnant women are emotionally unstable. If I stay too close, it might affect my work performance. And my time cost is very high.”
So that became his excuse—for distance, coldness, and everything else.
In the meantime, Patricia would drop by occasionally.
Every time she came, she brought a scale. She’d set it down with a clunk, make me stand on it, then bend over and jot down my weight.
“Why did you gain again? Are you secretly eating something nice?” she would demand. “I’m telling you, everything you eat counts as child-rearing costs, and you’ll split all of that with us later. Don’t even think about taking advantage of our family.”
I said nothing and just looked at her.
My stare made her uneasy.
“What are you looking at? Did I say anything wrong?” Patricia snapped.
I answered softly, “No.”
Only then did she leave, satisfied.
...
Time crawled by, and finally, the day of my due date arrived.
That morning, my water broke.
A wave of contractions slammed into me so hard my vision went black.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed my phone and called Evan.
“Evan… I… I’m going into labor,” I panted.
There were a few seconds of silence on the other end.
“So soon? Three days earlier than expected,” he said.
Then, almost reassuringly, he added, “Don’t panic, Grace. I’m coming back now.”
I was writhing on the floor from the pain when he finally walked in.
However, he didn’t offer a hand to help me up. Instead, he calmly retrieved the same portable card reader he had used at our wedding and crouched down in front of me.
Then, he said, “The signal at the hospital is bad. Card payment is the most reliable. Here—seven thousand five hundred. Let’s settle the bill first.”
Evan held the reader near my trembling hand, as if he were waiting for me to purchase a product.
Then he opened a memo on his phone.
“We agreed before that hospitalization and delivery cost $15,000. Your share is $7,500. Transfer it now. We need to settle accounts before going to the hospital.”
Curled on the floor, my clothes soaked with sweat, I stared at him in disbelief.
“Evan… you…” was all I could manage.
“This was clearly written in the agreement. You didn’t forget, did you?” he reminded me.
He handed his phone to me, and the QR code was glowing on the screen.
“Hurry up. Don’t waste time. Hospital beds are limited," Evan urged.
Patricia stood behind him, arms crossed, watching coldly.
“What are you dawdling for? It’s just giving birth. What woman doesn’t?” she said with a snort. “Transfer the money. Don’t even think about skipping the bill.”
Using every ounce of strength I had, I crawled up from the floor and fumbled around until I found my phone. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely hold them.
I opened the payment app and aimed it at his QR code.
[Entered amount: $7,500]
[Pressed pay]
A soft beep sounded.
[Payment successful]
Evan glanced down at his phone, checked the notification, and nodded in satisfaction.
“Good. Got it. Let’s go,” he said, as if we’d just finished paying for groceries.
He reached out to support me.
I shoved his hand away.
“No need,” I said through clenched teeth.
Supporting myself against the wall, I took slow, agonizing steps toward the door.
Every step felt like walking on blades. Blood and amniotic fluid streamed down my legs.
I didn’t look back.
But I could feel them, mother and son, following behind me.
I reached the elevator and pressed the down button.
The doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped inside.
Just as the doors were about to close, I turned my head.
Evan and Patricia stood frozen in the doorway.
I smiled at him.
Then I pressed the button for the underground parking level of the other building.
My car was parked there.
I had already contacted my private doctor and the postpartum center.
From the moment I decided to keep this child, I had been preparing for this day.
'Evan, and your mother, your game ends here. Now, it’s my turn.'
