I ignored his weak excuses, barely able to hold back the overwhelming urge to push him away. I just wanted him to leave.
Every minute, every second spent with him now felt suffocating, like I was struggling for air.
Julian didn’t say much. He brushed off my discomfort, gave my hand a perfunctory squeeze, and walked out without a second glance.
As expected.
Not long after, Hazel’s message arrived, a taunting display of her victory.
"Audrey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. But Julian left you so quickly and came to see me. I hope you weren’t hiding away and crying alone?"
"I’m only doing this for your own good. You need to face the truth—you’re not loved. You don’t know that Julian talks about you all the time to me, always shaking his head and saying how you’re 'old,' 'lifeless,' and 'unromantic.'"
"He’s still with you only out of guilt, fulfilling some sense of responsibility, but there’s no love left. Please, Audrey, wake up and see it for yourself."
Each word pierced like a blade, but at this point, I had grown numb to the pain. It didn’t sting anymore.
A month ago, when Hazel first contacted me, it felt like I had died a thousand deaths.
At the time, I had just undergone my third round of artificial insemination. I was still recovering in the hospital, struggling with the aftermath of the first two failed attempts, both ending in miscarriage. This time, I was extra cautious.
But Hazel didn’t care. She sent me photos and messages, showing off behind Julian’s back.
In one photo, she lay in our master bedroom while Julian was on top of her, the marks on her back a clear sign of their intimate encounter.
She was so giddy, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes clouded with desire, that it was evident even in the photos she sent. Her words, dripping with heat, left no room for interpretation.
“Audrey, make sure to rest well! Julian will be in my care for a few days.”
“He’s insatiable, really. I’m exhausted. From morning to night, he won’t let me leave the bed...”
“By the way, Julian said making love on the bed you used to sleep in was so thrilling, so special. I have to agree, it did feel different.”
In that moment, the world around me collapsed.
I understood every word, yet together they formed a meaning that ripped through me.
I stood frozen, unable to react, but with each tear that slid down my cheek, the reality became clearer.
Each droplet blurred the screen, wetting the blanket beneath me, and I couldn’t stop them.
The weight of my despair was unbearable, like a mountain silently crumbling under the weight of snow. The flakes fell like jagged knives, piercing my heart over and over again.
The cold seeped into my soul, and I could feel the pain manifesting in my tears—tears that bled pure sorrow, making me feel as though my heart was being torn apart, screaming in agony without sound.
I don't even remember how I made it through. I don't know how the child inside me survived.
All I remember is the endless shots of hormone injections I endured, my muscles stiff and my skin bruised, each one a desperate attempt to protect what little hope I had left.
A week passed before Julian, who had claimed to be on a business trip, returned. He was his usual charming, gentlemanly self, bringing a "gift" from his trip.
That night, Hazel posted a picture flaunting her new bag and watch, but only I could see it. It was then I realized—the so-called gift Julian had brought me was nothing more than a trinket Hazel had purchased, just another token after her lavish spending.
It was cheap, insignificant—just like I was in his eyes.
And in that moment, I finally saw the truth. The truth of Julian’s hypocrisy.
The blindfold I had been wearing for so long was ripped away, and I was awake. Completely awake.
