At that moment, a young girl was brought to us, head lowered pitifully.
“I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad, it was my fault. I was careless and accidentally moved this unfinished piece here.”
“It’s fine, Zoey. Just be careful next time. Don’t make your future sister-in-law upset again.”
Ethan said lazily, even tapping her on the head in a teasing manner.
“Ethan, you’re going to make me dumb if you keep doing that!”
“I’ve already finished setting up the preview event for tomorrow. How about I take you to see it?”
Zoey swung Ethan’s arm playfully, dragging him toward the exit.
I had just calmed down, but when I heard that the embryo was Zoey’s so-called “artwork,” rage shot through me.
How dare she!
I had carried that baby for four months, endured over a hundred progesterone injections just to keep the pregnancy.
Later, when Ethan went with me for a prenatal checkup, he told me the baby was a stillbirth.
I lay on that cold operating table in despair.
And now, I was seeing my baby again — as someone else’s art installation.
Watching their interlocked fingers as they left, I grabbed a nearby tool and smashed the display case.
Shards of glass flew everywhere, nearly cutting into my eye.