So every so-called business trip had been nothing but an excuse to be with Cynthia.
I had swallowed my anger countless times, hating how he never once went with me to the hospital.
So many times, when doctors asked where the baby’s father was, I could only force a smile and answer that he was busy.
Every time, he delayed endlessly before replying to my messages.
“I’m doing this to earn milk powder money for our baby. Checkups aren’t such a big deal. Even if I go, I can’t really help, and it’s just a waste of time. Things you can handle yourself, you should just do on your own.”
Yet with Cynthia, it was never the same. He stayed by her side, let her rest, protected her pregnancy, and walked with her through every prenatal checkup. No matter how busy his days became, he never missed one.
He said he longed for the day their baby would be born, that she and the child were the treasures of his life.
As I scrolled further, my heart twisted so tight it felt like it was being ripped apart, the pain cutting deep.
Whenever I carried a child, they were only discussing how to destroy it.
Even the accident a year ago, when I was pregnant, it was Cynthia who drove the car. She said she wanted the thrill of striking someone, and Javon, smiling, had agreed.
He offered only one careless warning. “Go easy.”
They spoke with ease about wounding me, about killing my children, as if it were no different from discussing the weather.
My nails dug deep into my palm until blood seeped out in drops.
I opened the photo album, tens of thousands of pictures, every one of them filled with Cynthia. Selfies, stolen shots, scenes of them waking up together, walking together, going home together… even Javon, carefully preparing meals for her while she was pregnant.
Then came the 99+ recorded videos. The moment I switched, it was like a basin of ice water poured over my head, chilling me to the marrow.
Endless clips of their bare bodies entwined, as if they had made it a point to capture every single encounter.
They even role-played, Javon, dressed in a maid's outfit, kneeling before her.
I gripped my stomach, the nausea rising until words failed me.
And then I saw them, six videos, labeled from “First” to “Sixth.”
Realization struck, and my blood surged wildly, the metallic taste of iron rushing up my throat.
I bit my lips until they bled and clicked on the sixth.