"Enough." My voice cracked through his tirade—hoarse, shattered, but cold as steel. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted iron, using the pain to leash the grief and rage threatening to tear me apart. When I spoke again, each word was deliberate, precise:
"The children are dead."
Max's mouth snapped shut. The fury on his face froze, something flickering behind his eyes—confusion, maybe even a flash of fear. But it lasted only a heartbeat.
Then he laughed. A sharp, mocking sound, dripping with scorn. "Marina, is there any lie you won't tell? Any line you won't cross?"
He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, and thrust it in my face. Gretchen's ultrasound report glowed on the display, followed by his social media announcement. "You found out today that Gretchen is carrying my child, didn't you? And now you're so jealous you've gone insane—making up stories, trying to curse me, desperate to make me feel sorry for you?"
His voice turned to ice. "Is this really how low you'll stoop? Using our daughters to curse me? Marina, you disgust me. You don't deserve to be their mother. You don't even deserve to speak their names."