Staring at the face I knew so well yet felt so distant from, a wave of ridiculousness rushed through me.
There was a time when Zion and I spent night after night in this same office, staying up late, discussing proposals, chasing investors, planning the future.
But now, papers were scattered across the ground, flipped over in a mess, and even a few used condoms lay plainly on the carpet.
Everything here was dirty enough to make me sick.
That heavy sense of collapse hit me hard, and I couldn’t stop it. I covered my mouth violently.
The next moment, I spun around and ran out of the office, nearly tripping as I rushed into the restroom and threw up until I could barely stand.
When I came back, I never mentioned the clothes again.
Instead, I gently packed every single item set aside for the baby, the outfits, the toys, the little books, the mobile for the crib, and quietly had them moved to the house I bought abroad years ago.
Zion didn’t notice any of it. He assumed I had finally learned to be “understanding.”
So he started buying things to make up for me.
Pricey maternity outfits, limited-edition accessories, sets of designer clothes, pile after pile stacked inside the walk-in closet.