I sought out my attending doctor termination of pregnancy.
"Elodie," the doctor said gently, "please think this through. You conceived this baby after three rounds of IVF."
"That’s exactly why," I replied. "I know how hard it was. And I can’t let this child be born into a home where the father doesn’t love the mother. Or worse… where he doesn’t want the child at all."
Maybe I had cried too much already. My voice was calm, detached—like I was talking about someone else’s life, not my own.
The doctor looked at me with pity in his eyes, sighed and handed me the paperwork. "The earliest slot is the day after tomorrow. Try to rest. Avoid strain. And take care of your injured leg."
I did not even remember the drive home. Everything was a blur until I stepped inside and smelled food wafting from the kitchen.
Darien was there. Wearing an apron. Cooking the dishes he knew I loved, just like he always did.
Just an hour ago, he had been whispering sweet nothings into another woman’s ear. And now, here he was—playing the devoted husband without a crack in his mask.
He should win an award for this performance, shouldn’t he?
He turned to grab a plate and saw me standing in the doorway. His face lit up.