"Anya, after your shower, go to bed early. Don't catch a cold. I promise I'll make it official tomorrow—you'll be my new assistant," Tristan said, his voice warm, dripping with a false gentleness that had once been mine.

I stood just outside the hospital door, my fingers curling against the door frame until my knuckles turned white. The muffled sounds of their laughter pierced through the crack. Then came the onslaught of kisses, wet and desperate, accompanied by hushed giggles and the sound of skin brushing against fabric. My chest tightened, each sound a dagger that drove deeper.

I didn't know what hurt more—my shattered spirit or my battered body. My legs felt weak and I leaned against the door for support. I no longer had the strength to bear this.

That evening, Tristan stumbled into our room, reeking of alcohol. His gait was uneven, but his face glowed with an eerie cheerfulness. His eyes held a spark of glee, but it wasn't for me.

"I brought you something to eat. Get up and have a bite," he said, his tone brusque yet oddly playful. He placed a container on the nightstand, then reached down to help me sit up.

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.

Tristan didn't notice the bitterness in my tone. He turned away, heading toward the bathroom, his movements quick and restless. I watched his reflection on the glass door, his face strained as he raised his phone to his ear.

"Did you tell Zara you've returned to the country?" His voice was low but sharp, each word cutting like a blade. "I'm already in a mess right now. Give me some time and I'll sort this out."

My chest tightened as I listened. So, he was planning to end this marriage. But for whom? The sharp sound of a scream from his phone broke my thoughts.

"I don't care! I'm coming over now!" the woman on the other end cried, her voice shrilled with desperation.

Tristan slammed his fist against the bathroom wall, the sound echoing through the room. He looked cornered, his vulnerability raw and exposed. For all his posturing, Tristan had always been fragile, breaking under the weight of his lies.

"What's going on?" I called out, feigning concern.

"Nothing," he replied quickly, his voice uneven. "Something fell."

Moments later, the bathroom light flicked off and he emerged, carrying the coolness of the night with him. Sliding into bed beside me, he pulled the blanket over my shoulders and spoke in a coaxing tone.

"Now that you're pregnant, you should rest more. Go to sleep."

But his eyes, reflecting the pale moonlight, weren't on me. They were distant, lost in thoughts of someone else.

I lay stiffly, my back to him, pretending to sleep. The silence stretched on until he suddenly turned, his movements abrupt, his expression tense. I felt his gaze on me, searching, but I didn't move.

Eventually, he slipped out of bed. The soft creak of the door was followed by voices in the hall.

"I told you I'd come to see you tomorrow," Tristan said, his tone edged with frustration.

A woman's voice, trembling with sobs, replied, "And I told you I want to see you today. If you won't come to me, then I'll come to you. Don't you love me?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. My chest tightened as I waited for his answer, my heart pounding against my ribcage.

Finally, I heard him speak, his voice low and hoarse. "I do."

Two words. Short, simple and yet they shattered everything.

Lying there in the dark, my vision blurred with tears, I clutched the blanket tightly to my chest. Those words weren't for me. They never had been.

Before I knew it, my pillow was soaked with tears and my entire head throbbed with a hollow, numbing ache. The faint light of the moon filtered through the curtains, illuminating the stillness of my side of the room. Yet outside the door, the muffled sounds of passion broke the silence—soft laughter, whispered words and the wet sounds of lingering kisses.

Separated by just a wall, it felt as though two entirely different worlds had taken shape. In one, intimacy bloomed. In the other, I lay alone, cradling my shattered heart.

Sleep was a distant memory. My trembling hands reached for my phone, the device feeling cold and unfamiliar. I scrolled through my long-neglected social media feed, hoping for a distraction.

I had few friends listed—mostly employees from Tristan's company, people I had added out of obligation rather than genuine connection. Among them, Anya stood out as the most active. Her posts dominated my feed, each update a carefully curated dagger aimed at my pride.

Two nights ago, she had posted: [Oh my god, making out with my boyfriend in the car and got caught by the police. So embarrassing and we even got fined!]

A few days before that: [That jerk still clings to me like before, wouldn't let me go all night. My legs are so sore and now I have to nap all day.]

The words blurred as tears spilled onto the screen, but no amount of crying could erase Anya's smug smile in her profile picture—a perfectly posed snapshot of triumph.

But these posts were only the surface. My call log revealed more of her relentless pursuit. Over thirty missed calls from Anya in recent weeks. She always seemed to find new ways to remind me of my place, painting me as the interloper who had stolen Tristan from her. In her mind, now that she was back, it was only right for me to return him.

It seemed I would be stepping aside soon enough.

To drown out the intimate sounds from the other side of the wall, I pulled the blanket over my head, cocooning myself in the oppressive heat of my despair. Yet even then, sleep eluded me until dawn broke.

When the first light of morning crept into the room, I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. My bare feet padded softly against the cold tiles as I splashed water on my face, the icy chill shocking my swollen eyes. Just as I was about to return to bed, the bedroom door creaked open behind me.

"Zara, why didn't you call me if you needed the bathroom?" Tristan's voice was low and groggy but carried a faint edge of concern.

I froze, the words catching in my throat as I turned to see him. His disheveled appearance was a stark contrast to the Tristan I once knew. His neck and chest bore faint marks of earlier passion, a silent testimony to what had transpired with Anya.

For a moment, I felt exposed, caught in the raw vulnerability of the situation. It took several seconds before I managed to speak. "I can manage on my own," I said, my voice barely audible.

Tristan, oblivious to my discomfort, stepped forward to flush the toilet for me. Then, with an automatic familiarity, he guided me back to bed, his hand steady on my arm.

But before we could reach the bed, a figure appeared in the doorway. Anya stood there, barefoot and unabashed, her loose hair cascading over Tristan's shirt—the same white shirt he had worn to bed the night before.

Her lips curved into a playful smirk as she bit down on them, her eyes sparkling with malice. Then, without a care, she threw herself against Tristan's chest, her arms wrapping around him possessively.

I stood frozen, my insides churning as I watched them. Two bodies, so close and so exposed, made me feel like an outsider in my own life. A pitiful clown performing in a tragic farce.

Forcing a smile, I turned away and crawled back under the blanket. "I'm going to sleep now," I murmured, though my voice cracked with the strain of holding back tears.

The rising sun illuminated the room in soft, golden hues, but I kept my gaze fixed on the window, unable to close my eyes.

When Tristan left for work later that morning, Anya lingered behind. She moved through the house with a sense of entitlement, her bare feet padding softly on the floor as if she owned the space.

Eventually, she perched on the edge of my bed, her legs crossed and her posture casual. The crisp white shirt she wore hung loosely on her slender frame, the collar slipping down one shoulder.

"Don't you understand what I'm saying?" she said, her tone sharp yet deceptively sweet. "Tristan loves me. If you're smart, you'll abort your child and divorce him immediately."

Her words hit with the force of a slap, but my heart was beyond breaking. I had no more tears to shed. My lips moved mechanically, forming the response I knew would defuse her venom.

"I've already aborted the baby," I said quietly, my voice flat. "You can rest assured."

For a moment, Anya's expression flickered with doubt. Then she snorted, her lips curling into a cold smile. "You say you've aborted it, but if I find out you lied to me...." Her voice trailed off, a threat heavy in the air. "I won't let you off."

With that, she stormed out, her bare feet thudding against the floor.

As the door slammed shut, a strange calm washed over me. Strictly speaking, Anya was my stepmother's daughter—a product of my father's betrayal. My father had abandoned my aging mother years ago, leaving her to wither away in loneliness.

Now, I had become my mother's stand-in, the family's punching bag, stripped of dignity and purpose. But I had made up my mind: none of it mattered anymore. Not Anya's taunts, not Tristan's empty words, nor the nights spent listening to him love someone else.

I stayed silent, playing the part of a blind woman flawlessly. Words stuck in my throat like a knot I couldn't untangle.

The next morning, Tristan seemed unusually attentive. Perhaps guilt tugged at him, or maybe he sensed the growing distance between us. As I sipped my tea at the breakfast table, he suddenly spoke, his tone lighter than usual.

"Zara, let's go to the hospital today for your prenatal check-up. I'll take you myself." His eyes searched mine with uncharacteristic intensity.

My hand instinctively rested on my flat stomach. The weight of the truth I hadn't shared pressed heavily on me. This was my chance to tell him that the baby was gone, that I had chosen to end it.

But under his expectant gaze, I hesitated. "Okay," I said softly, my voice barely audible.

When we arrived at the hospital, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and blooming jasmine from nearby planters. Tristan helped me out of the car and led me to a bench just inside the entrance. His touch, once warm and reassuring, felt mechanical now—a practiced gesture devoid of real connection.

"Wait here. I'll go make the arrangements," he said, crouching down to meet my gaze. He smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling tight as if trying to reassure himself more than me.

Through the hospital's glass doors, I saw her—Anya. She was waving at Tristan with both hands, her face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.

Tristan's composure cracked for a split second, but he quickly recovered, turning back to me briefly. "Stay put," he murmured. Then, without hesitation, he sprinted to her.

From my seat, I watched them through the glass. Tristan enveloped her in a tight embrace, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in his world. Anya clung to him, sobbing dramatically, her voice just audible through the door.

"Tristan, I'm pregnant—with our child. Our child!" Her words rang out like a gunshot in the quiet hospital corridor, shattering the fragile bubble of denial I had built around myself.

Tristan froze, his body stiffening as he pulled back to look at her. His expression was a chaotic mix of shock and disbelief, but his hands instinctively moved to her shoulders, steadying her.

"Anya…" His voice cracked, betraying his usual calm.

Tears streaked down her flushed cheeks, but her sobs quickly turned into triumphant laughter as she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of them together. Seconds later, I saw her tap furiously and then a notification lit up my own screen.

Anya had posted the photo, captioned simply: [Baby on board!]

Tristan frowned, his jaw tightening. "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed, lowering his voice. "The employees will see this!"

Anya's lower lip trembled and her eyes glistened with fresh tears. "I just wanted to show how much I love you. Don't you want to stop sneaking around forever? Don't you want a family with me?"

His defenses crumbled immediately. Tristan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. After a long pause, he took out his phone and typed something. Moments later, his own post went live: [Anya's child is mine. I'll give everyone an explanation soon.]

It was his first social media post in six years.

My stomach twisted as I scrolled through the comments that flooded in almost instantly:

[Mr. Anders has cared for a blind woman for six years. He's already done enough.]

[Tristan and Anya make such a perfect couple! Now they can finally have a real family.]

[Lucky Anya! Tristan is the dream husband!]

Anya beamed as she read the comments aloud to Tristan, her voice bubbling with excitement. Then, standing on tiptoes, she kissed his cheek, leaving a faint pink lipstick mark. Tristan smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.

Suddenly, he glanced at his watch. "Wait here. I need to finish something inside."

By the time he returned to me, his expression was carefully neutral. "Zara, I ran into a friend earlier. Sorry for the delay. Let's get you checked in now."

His words flowed smoothly, but I could see the strain in his posture, the tightness in his jaw. He helped me into the examination room but didn't linger, excusing himself almost immediately.

The doctor who entered froze as soon as she saw me. Her eyes widened, her professional smile faltering. "Mrs. Anders?" she began, her voice hesitant.

I couldn't meet her gaze. Just a few days ago, she'd helped me with the abortion. Now, here I was, returning for a prenatal checkup. Finally, I stood, shaking my head. "I'm sorry. There's been a mistake."

I left the room before she could respond, my footsteps unsteady. As I passed the waiting area, I caught sight of them again—Tristan and Anya. He held her bag over one shoulder while his other hand rested protectively on her lower back. They were laughing together, their heads close as if sharing a private joke.

Something inside me snapped. I hailed a taxi outside the hospital, the driver's puzzled gaze lingering on my tear-streaked face.

Back at the house, I moved through the rooms mechanically, packing my belongings into a single suitcase. I avoided looking at the bed, the couch, the dining table—all the places where our life together had unfolded.

By the time I arrived at the airport, the sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the bustling terminal. There was no dramatic goodbye. No lingering words or farewells. Just the sound of my suitcase wheels rolling across the polished floor. I was ready to leave everything behind.

However, my phone buzzed with a notification just as I was about to board my flight. It was a message from my ophthalmologist: [No idea what's gotten into your husband. He beat up the obstetrician and has been taken away by the police!]