Then Beverly arrived six months ago—his “lifesaver”—and everything cracked.
I watched him laugh with her, soften for her, care for her in ways he’d never shown me. Even his coldness toward my family vanished around hers. When she was diagnosed with cancer, he didn’t hesitate: IVF, a child, a twisted happily-ever-after.
I didn’t explain the details to my friends. Just said I’d joined a closed-off research lab and would vanish for years. To soften the blow, I drank with them until midnight.
When I stumbled home, Dominic had just returned. He recoiled at the smell of alcohol, covering his nose like I’d brought in sewage.
“Stay back. I don’t want that stench on me.”
I almost laughed. Of course. Beverly’s pregnant—can’t risk contaminating the sacred heir.
But I said nothing, showered, and headed to bed.
As I passed the living room, Dominic was typing furiously on his phone, grin brighter than our engagement photos. I kept walking—until his voice froze me.
“We need to talk.”
The last time he’d said that, he’d dropped the “I want to make a baby with my ex” bomb. Now, with Beverly already pregnant, what fresh hell awaited?
