As I continued scrolling, my breath hitched when I saw Zane's comment under Sabrina's post: [Your birthday must be celebrated, honey. Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you no matter what.]

My grip on the phone tightened as I read Sabrina's reply: [Thank you, Zane. You've never missed my birthday, not even once.]

A sharp, searing pain shot through my palms. I looked down to see my fingernails digging into my skin, leaving half-moon indents. My knuckles were white with tension, but I couldn't release my fists.

I cursed myself silently. 'Emma, why can't you just give up already? Why do you keep hoping for a love that isn't there?'

The thought left me hollow, as if the last spark of strength had been drained from my body. My hands moved on their own as I numbly scheduled an abortion on my phone.

***

The hospital smelled of disinfectant, the sterile air thick with an unsettling chill that seeped into my bones. I sat on a cold metal bench in the hallway, a small white box resting on the seat beside me. The box, unassuming and plain, held my stillborn child—barely two months old, a fragile existence snuffed out before it had begun.

A nurse spotted me from the other end of the corridor. Her footsteps slowed, her face flickering with surprise and confusion.

After a moment's hesitation, she approached softly and asked in a hushed tone, "Mrs. Nicholson? What are you doing here? Does your husband know about your miscarriage?"

The corners of my mouth twitched as I forced a brittle smile. It felt more like a grimace. "He knows," I lied.

Her surprise was understandable. Back when we were trying for a child, Zane had been the picture of a devoted husband. He had accompanied me to the hospital three times a week, taking care of every detail. He handled the registration, stood in line for appointments and even ran across the hospital to get my prescriptions.

He wouldn't let me lift a finger. "You focus on staying healthy, honey. I'll handle everything," he had said with that warm, reassuring smile.

The nurses had adored him, calling him the perfect husband. The doctors often praised his dedication, remarking on how rare it was to see a man so attentive.

Once, after a blood test left me lightheaded, he had cradled me in his arms, his voice thick with worry. "Emma, don't scare me like that. If you're not feeling well, tell me right away. Nothing's more important than you and the baby."

Back then, I had believed him. I had believed every word, every touch. I had thought I was the luckiest woman alive.

But now, thinking about it felt absurd. Those moments of tenderness were nothing but illusions, as fragile as the glass box I once held my hopes in.

My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts. The name on the screen sent a fresh wave of bitterness through me. It was Zane.

I hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Honey, where are you? Why aren't you home? I'm done with work. Didn't you want to celebrate your birthday?" His tone was playful, slightly petulant, as if he were teasing me.

Once, that tone would have softened me, made me think he was just clumsy at showing love. I would've acted cute, coaxing him into holding me. But now, the sound of his voice felt like a dagger twisting in my chest.

"I'm at the hospital," I said, my voice cold and devoid of emotion. "Come pick me up."

The line was silent for a moment before he replied, his voice hesitant, "The hospital? Are you okay? Why didn't you tell me—"

"I'll explain when you get here." I hung up before he could respond, unable to bear the feigned concern in his voice.

***

By the time we arrived home, it was late. The house was dark and quiet, the silence heavy and oppressive. My stomach growled audibly, a painful reminder that I hadn't eaten all day.

Clutching my abdomen, I dragged my weary body to the sofa and sank into it. The cold leather pressed against my skin, amplifying the ache in my heart.

Zane appeared moments later, stepping out of the dining room with a cake and a glossy gift bag in hand. He placed the gift in front of me with practiced ease, then wrapped his arms around me from behind, his breath warm against my cheek.

"Honey, don't be mad, okay? I transferred twenty-five grand into your account. Go buy yourself a nice bag or whatever you want. I'll make it up to you properly later," he said, his tone smooth and coaxing.

I turned my head slowly to face him, my gaze locking onto his. His eyes sparkled, his expression soft and affectionate—almost too perfect, like a mask molded to hide the truth.

"Zane," I said, my voice steady but cold. "Do you know? Today is also my cousin Sabrina's birthday. You know how much I hate her, yet somehow, we share the same day."

For a fleeting moment, a flicker of panic crossed his face. His lips parted, but no words came out. It was clear he hadn't expected me to bring up Sabrina.

"Why are you even mentioning her? She's no one important." He fumbled with the gift bag, pulling out a small velvet box. "Look, I got you this. I spent a lot of time picking it out."

Inside was a jade pin, intricately carved into the shape of a lotus flower—a symbol of fertility and new beginnings.

My blood boiled. The next second, I grabbed the pin and hurled it to the floor. The delicate jade shattered, shards scattering across the hardwood like fragments of my broken heart.

"Zane, what do you take me for? A baby-making machine?" My voice trembled with rage, but my words were sharp and precise, cutting through the air like knives.

Zane barely flinched. Instead, he stepped closer, his expression softening as he reached for me. He pulled me into his arms, his voice low and soothing.

"Honey, come one, don't be angry. I'd never think of you that way. We both want a child, don't we?" Zane's voice was calm, almost soothing, but it grated on my ears.

I felt my chest tighten and my voice cracked as I responded, "Zane, I don't want this child. Right now, I feel like I'm going insane."

The words spilled out before I could stop them. The truth was suffocating, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. Trying to conceive this child had pushed me to the brink. Every day felt like a relentless cycle of hopeless routine.

The moment I opened my eyes each morning, I was greeted by the dull monotony of my regimen—taking medicine, sitting under the sun as if it could magically heal my despair and anxiously awaiting Zane's return, hoping for even a sliver of comfort from him.

I couldn't escape the weight of my mother-in-law's passive-aggressive remarks, her sharp tongue slicing through my already fragile composure. My parents weren't any better; their constant nagging about having a baby echoed in my mind, a relentless chorus of disappointment.

I slumped onto the sofa, hugging a stuffed toy like a lifeline. Hot tears streamed down my face, soaking the fabric as sobs racked my body.

Zane stood a few steps away, his arms crossed, watching me. His silence was unbearable, his gaze detached—as if he were an observer of someone else's misery. I wanted him to move, to speak, to do something.

All I wanted was a hug. Just a simple, human gesture to remind me I wasn't alone in this hell. But he didn't move. His expression was unreadable, his calmness maddening as I unraveled before him.

My sobs slowed, but the pain in my chest only grew heavier. Finally, Zane stepped forward. Without a word, he scooped me into his arms. I stiffened, his touch no longer a comfort but a reminder of how distant we'd become.

He carried me to bed, his grip firm yet mechanical, like he was fulfilling an obligation. Lowering his head, he tried to kiss me. I turned my face away, the gesture instinctive.

He paused but didn't get angry. Instead, he lay down beside me, wrapping me in his arms. His warmth should have been reassuring, but it felt like being buried alive. My heart plummeted into an abyss of cold despair.

Less than half an hour later, his phone rang. I didn't need to ask who it was; I already knew. He answered quickly, his voice lowering as he muttered something I couldn't hear. Moments later, he was up and out the door.

The emptiness of the room pressed down on me like a crushing weight. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a photo from Sabrina.

She and Zane were at The Ritz, a small candlelit cake between them. Sabrina wore a radiant smile, her face turned slightly toward Zane, who looked back at her with a soft expression. My lips curled into a bitter smile. 'So, love really can overcome all obstacles, can't it?'

Zane was terrified of heights—always had been. Despite his image as a high-powered CEO known throughout Arlington, he insisted his office be on the second floor. As a child, his half-brother had locked him in the attic overnight, leaving him trembling and broken until I found him the next morning.

For him to dine at The Ritz, perched high above the city? He must have been utterly and hopelessly in love with Sabrina.

***

The next morning, Zane still hadn't come home. The hours dragged on in silence until my phone buzzed again. It was a message from Sabrina: an address.

Curiosity—and perhaps a twinge of masochism—compelled me to go. The location turned out to be a bustling book signing event.

I wandered through the store, my fingers brushing over the spines of books, their glossy covers gleaming under fluorescent lights. A display near the center caught my attention. Rows of books with Sabrina's name adorned the table, each copy bearing the same title: [The Scars That Shaped Me.]

I picked one up and flipped through it absentmindedly. The words on the pages grew increasingly familiar, striking like lightning through my mind. The further I read, the more horrified I became.

It was my story.

Every painful scar, every humiliation, every heartbreak—it was all laid bare, written in ink for the world to see. The neglect I endured from my parents, the betrayal of my childhood sweetheart, my naive, girlish love for Zane...

Shame and fury collided within me, setting my blood ablaze. I was a novelist, yes, but I had never considered exposing my pain to the world. The only person who could have betrayed me like this was Zane.

My grip tightened on the book as a pair of sharp heels clicked against the floor. I turned to see Sabrina strutting toward me, her red stilettos and fitted dress exuding confidence.

"Emma," she greeted, her tone dripping with mockery. "Surprised? I became a famous author before you did."

Her smirk widened as she held up a copy of her book, waving it like a trophy.

"Sabrina!" My voice trembled with rage. "Aren't you afraid I'll sue you?"

She laughed lightly, leaning in until her breath brushed my ear. "Emma, you're still as naive as ever."

Then, with a theatrical sway, she stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as she looked up at me, her expression a perfect picture of distress.

"Emma," she whimpered, her voice loud enough to draw attention. "Why did you push me? I only turned your story into a novel..."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, their judgmental gazes pinning me in place like daggers.

Rage burned through me like wildfire. I stormed forward and slapped her hard across the face. The sound echoed sharply, silencing the murmurs around us.

"Sabrina, I am not the same Emma you used to bully! Since you all want to paint me as the villain, then I'll be the villain to the very end!"

The crowd recoiled, whispers bubbling up like a boiling pot.

Suddenly, Zane burst through the throng, his face a mixture of anger and panic. He shoved me hard, sending me sprawling to the ground. A sharp, searing pain radiated through my abdomen.

He bent down, scooping Sabrina into his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world. His face twisted with urgency and disgust as he glared down at me.

"Emma, you're bullying Sabrina again?! She's pregnant, you vicious woman!"

His words struck harder than his shove. He didn't even glance at me as he carried her away, leaving me crumpled on the ground.

The pain in my ankle was unbearable, swelling like a grotesque bun. Yet, no one moved to help me. The whispers continued, the crowd's judgment lingering like a dark cloud.

'So, even a heart numbed by pain can still hurt,' I whispered inwardly, feeling the throbbing ache in my ankle and the sting of my cheek.

Zane had once been the kind of man who panicked at the sight of a paper cut on my finger. He'd rush to fetch a bandage, his hands trembling as he carefully tended to me, murmuring soft reassurances. But now, that tenderness felt like an illusion—a cruel, fleeting dream. His deep affection had been nothing but a flawless act.

Even now, knowing the truth, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was trapped in a waking nightmare.

A sharp voice sliced through my spiraling thoughts.

"Emma, why are you embarrassing yourself? Get up!"

I blinked, my surroundings coming back into focus. The woman standing before me was my mother, Elizabeth, elegantly dressed as always. Her posture was rigid, her eyes narrow and cold. But calling her my mother felt wrong. 'She's Sabrina's mother,' I thought bitterly. Elizabeth had never loved me. Her affections had always been reserved for Sabrina, her golden child.

Still, some desperate part of me yearned for her approval, for the love that should have come naturally from a mother to her daughter.

"Mom," I choked out, my voice weak. "It hurts so much..."

"Hurt? What hurt?" Her tone dripped with disdain. She stepped closer, her perfume—once comforting—now cloying and suffocating. "You're just like any other woman. Don't think I don't know what you're up to. I saw everything. It was clearly you who pushed Sabrina!"

Her words hit like a physical blow. Before I could react, she raised her foot—encased in a sharp stiletto—and brought it down on my injured ankle.

A sharp, searing pain shot through me, tearing a scream from my throat. I writhed, clutching my leg as agony rippled through my body.

But the crowd that had gathered didn't step in. Their faces were filled with a mixture of curiosity and cruel delight, their whispers a cacophony of judgment and amusement.

Elizabeth leaned in closer, her voice low but venomous. "Emma, how many times have I told you? If you dare to hurt Sabrina, I will make you pay."

Through the haze of pain, a question that had haunted me for years slipped from my lips. "Mom, why don't you love me? I'm your daughter, aren't I?"

For a fleeting moment, her icy facade cracked. She froze, her expression unreadable. But then her face twisted with fury.

"How dare you ask me that?" she spat. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have lost my son! Do you know how many years of humiliation I endured in the Clarke Family because of you?"

Her words struck like a dagger to my heart.

"It wasn't me," I said hoarsely, struggling to sit up. "The person who caused your miscarriage was Sabrina. It was her who spilled water on the stairs—"

Slap!

The force of her hand sent my head snapping to the side. A metallic taste filled my mouth as blood trickled from the corner of my lips. My cheek burned, the fiery pain a cruel punctuation to her hatred.

"Still lying, Emma?" she sneered. "You and Zane don't have a child because you deserve it—it's karma!"

Tears streamed down my face, hot and unrelenting. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but my body felt too broken to move.

I licked the blood from my lips, the bitter taste grounding me. With every ounce of strength I had left, I staggered to my feet, wobbling as the pain in my ankle flared.

"Mom," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears, "I should have realized long ago... You never loved me. I was just foolish to hope."

Something flickered in her eyes—confusion, perhaps, or hesitation. For a moment, it looked as if she might reach out to me, her hand trembling at her side. But then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed. She straightened, her gaze hardening.

"You're pathetic," she said coldly.

Her words were a final nail in the coffin of my hope.

***

I didn't know how I ended up at the hospital. My memories of the journey were a blur, swallowed by the haze of pain and despair.

When I came to, I was lying in a stark white hospital room. A young nurse hovered nearby, her face soft with sympathy. I recognized her as the same nurse I'd met the night before.

She hesitated, glancing at me as if unsure whether to speak. Finally, she murmured, "Your husband... he's in the VIP ward next door, carefully tending to another woman."

Her words hit like a cold gust of wind. I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. "It's fine. We're getting a divorce soon anyway."

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing more, quietly retreating from the room.

The hours dragged on, the silence of the hospital room oppressive. Late at night, I found myself utterly alone.

I reached for my phone with trembling fingers and dialed a private number. The line connected after a single ring.

"I've made my decision," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside me. "The plan can begin."

***

The next morning, I woke to the sensation of someone holding my hand tightly. My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open.

Zane sat by my bedside, his face etched with guilt. His hand was warm around mine, but the sight of him only deepened the cold void in my chest.

"Honey," he began, his voice soft and apologetic. "I'm sorry. I was just too flustered yesterday. You know our company is working with Sabrina's husband on a business deal..."

I pulled my hand away, the movement slow and deliberate. His touch felt like poison.

"Oh," I said quietly, "is it about my novel?"

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. "Honey, what novel? I don't know anything about that."

I watched him fumble for words, his attempt to feign ignorance almost laughable. My lips curved into a bitter smile, but I didn't have the energy to call him out.

"It's nothing," I murmured, leaning back against the pillow. "I'm a little tired."

With that, I closed my eyes, shutting him out.

Let him sit there and pretend to care. I no longer cared.