The scent of steamed dumplings wafted through the air, stirring a pang of nausea in my stomach. My gaze fell on the transparent container. It was only half full, the edges smudged with soy sauce. Someone had already eaten the rest.
I forced a smile, my lips dry and cracking under the strain. "I remember Anya loved steamed dumplings the most," I said, my voice quiet but deliberate.
The light in Tristan's eyes dimmed instantly. His playful demeanor froze and an impatient frown crept across his face. He sighed heavily, as if I had ruined some perfect illusion. After a pause, he adjusted his tone, layering it with forced patience.
"Why bring her up now? Aren't we married? You're even carrying our child."
His hand reached out, brushing against my stomach. The touch was light, almost tender, but it burned like ice against my skin. He didn't know—the child he spoke of, the one he had never truly cared for, was long gone. Nothing remained now, not even the possibility of life.
"Yes, we're married," I replied, my voice brittle, each word tasting of ash.