Carlie Bean POV:
I sat there, the phone still clutched in my hand, the ghost of Brylee's voice echoing in the silent room.
The nausea intensified, a bitter taste rising in my throat.
My head spun, a dizzying whirlwind of disbelief and pain.
It was a physical manifestation of the emotional assault.
My body, already fragile with the demands of new life, rebelled against the shock.
I remembered Gage's words from years ago, how he'd called me "tame" compared to Brylee's "fire."
He'd said Brylee was the "excitement" he craved.
He'd promised he'd changed, that he valued stability now, valued me.
But it was all a lie, a carefully constructed illusion to lure me back into his gilded cage.
His deep, resonant voice, filled with such tenderness when he spoke to me, was capable of such venom, such casual cruelty, when describing me to his mistress.
The word "comfortable" stung more than any insult.
It stripped me of all passion, all desirability, reducing me to a convenient fixture, a warm body, a mother for his heirs.
The thought of his touch, his kisses, after hearing that recording, made my skin crawl.
Every "I love you" he had whispered felt like a betrayal before it even left his lips.
The irony was a cruel twist of the knife.
He had returned, begging, promising the world, and I, fool that I was, had believed him.
I had let down my guard, opened my heart, and invited him back in, only for him to stab me again, deeper this time.
But this time, it was different.
This time, there were tiny heartbeats fluttering within me, fragile and innocent.
They deserved better than a father who lied, a father who was still entangled with a woman who actively mocked their mother.
A fierce, protective instinct ignited within me, burning away the last vestiges of my naive hope.
No. Not this time.
This time, I would not be the quiet, forgiving Carlie Bean.
I would not be the "comfortable" wife.
I would be free.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady my racing heart.
My hands, still trembling, slowly lowered the phone.
The decision solidified in my mind, cold and clear as ice.
I had to leave. For good.
And this time, there would be no going back.
I heard the front door open, Gage's familiar footsteps in the foyer.
My stomach clenched, but my resolve hardened.
This conversation would be short, brutal, and definitive.
He walked into the study, a smile on his face, a bottle of champagne in his hand.
"Celebrating our future, my love," he said, oblivious, his eyes shining.
He saw the phone in my hand, the screen still dimly lit.
His smile faltered, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"Carlie? What are you doing with my phone?" he asked, his voice losing its warmth.
"I heard it," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.
The smile vanished. His face paled.
"Heard what?" he stammered, trying to sound innocent.
"Everything," I replied, my gaze unwavering, pinning him with the full weight of his deception.
His eyes darted away, a tell-tale sign of guilt.
He opened his mouth, probably to lie, to deny, to charm his way out of it.
But before he could say a word, his phone buzzed again.
Another text. From Brylee.
He glanced down, his face a mask of conflict.
"It can wait," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"No, it can't," he muttered, already reaching for the phone.
"She always comes first, doesn't she?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.
He ignored me, his thumb already flying across the screen.
He looked up, his eyes wide, a sudden panic in them.
"I have to go," he said, his voice rushed. "Brylee's in trouble."
"Of course," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
He didn't even look back as he ran out of the room, leaving me standing there, shattered amidst the ruins of our supposed new beginning.
I heard the roar of his car engine, speeding away.
My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor, the cold marble unforgiving beneath me.
A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen.
Then another, and another.
My vision swam, and a wave of dizziness overcame me.
I gripped my stomach, a desperate plea forming on my lips.
Not the babies. Please, not the babies.
But the pain intensified, a searing fire spreading through my core.
Panic clawed at my throat.
I tried to call out, but no sound came, only a choked gasp.
The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was the champagne bottle, still upright on the desk, a mocking symbol of the future that was never meant to be.
