My breath hitched, my resolve faltering for a heartbeat. But then Tristan's cruel words replayed in my mind: "This child is nothing more than a tool to make Anya jealous."
My nails dug into my palms once more, grounding me in the icy reality of my situation. I swallowed hard and nodded.
The cold instruments pressed against my body, their touch clinical and unfeeling. But no physical pain could compare to the chill of Tristan's words, their venom sinking deeper into my soul.
And yet, just that morning, he had cupped my face in his hands, his lips warm and tender against mine. "Be good and stay home," he'd said. "I'll take you out for dinner tonight."
I'd believed him. Six years by his side and I'd convinced myself that my love could thaw the ice in his heart. But it had all been an illusion—a cruel mirage.
As I left the operating room, my phone buzzed with a call. Anya's voice was sharp and unapologetic. "Tristan said you're pregnant. Get rid of it, will you? A bastard is still a bastard. Did you really think a baby would keep him?"
Her words hit like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, but then I heard it—a male voice in the background, low and unmistakably familiar. Tristan.