The cold instruments pressed against my body, their touch clinical and unfeeling. But no physical pain could compare to the chill of Tristan's words, their venom sinking deeper into my soul.
And yet, just that morning, he had cupped my face in his hands, his lips warm and tender against mine. "Be good and stay home," he'd said. "I'll take you out for dinner tonight."
I'd believed him. Six years by his side and I'd convinced myself that my love could thaw the ice in his heart. But it had all been an illusion—a cruel mirage.
As I left the operating room, my phone buzzed with a call. Anya's voice was sharp and unapologetic. "Tristan said you're pregnant. Get rid of it, will you? A bastard is still a bastard. Did you really think a baby would keep him?"
Her words hit like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, but then I heard it—a male voice in the background, low and unmistakably familiar. Tristan.
"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.