The next morning, a stabbing stomachache woke me. I staggered through the house until I found her lounging on the sofa, legs crossed, phone in hand.
A notification chimed, and she smiled as if nothing had ever happened.
I called her name again and again before she finally looked up. My pale face seemed to startle her for a moment, but she quickly plastered on a smile, setting her phone aside to press my shoulders lightly.
“You’re not well. Don’t come with me for the prenatal checkup today. Just rest at home.”
Her voice was calm, as if yesterday’s storm had been erased. She always did this—let me drown alone at night, then acted like nothing happened in the morning.
The pain made me clutch her hand, desperate, but her other hand kept typing.
From outside, Tristan’s arrogant voice rang:
“Cassie! Your father’s here—what are you waiting for?”
She immediately pulled free, tossed her phone down, and ran to the door.
I collapsed, knocking the phone over with my elbow.
The screen lit up. A pinned group chat stared back at me: Tristan and His Harem.
I tapped it—and froze.
“Gareth Locke is so pathetic. I told you two weren’t a good match.”