"Enough." My voice cracked through his tirade—hoarse, shattered, but cold as steel. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted iron, using the pain to leash the grief and rage threatening to tear me apart. When I spoke again, each word was deliberate, precise:
"The children are dead."
Max's mouth snapped shut. The fury on his face froze, something flickering behind his eyes—confusion, maybe even a flash of fear. But it lasted only a heartbeat.
Then he laughed. A sharp, mocking sound, dripping with scorn. "Marina, is there any lie you won't tell? Any line you won't cross?"
He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, and thrust it in my face. Gretchen's ultrasound report glowed on the display, followed by his social media announcement. "You found out today that Gretchen is carrying my child, didn't you? And now you're so jealous you've gone insane—making up stories, trying to curse me, desperate to make me feel sorry for you?"
His voice turned to ice. "Is this really how low you'll stoop? Using our daughters to curse me? Marina, you disgust me. You don't deserve to be their mother. You don't even deserve to speak their names."
He didn't look at me again. He stood, brushing off his clothes as though I'd contaminated him, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused—didn't turn around—his voice flat with warning:
"You're the one who pushed me away, Marina. You're the one who didn't want my attention, my affection. So stop running to Grandfather to complain. Stop playing the victim, crying about how I neglect you, how I mistreat you. It only makes me despise you more. It only makes you look cheaper."
The door slammed. The walls seemed to shudder. Silence crashed back into the room—so complete I could hear my own breathing, ragged and hollow. The stench of alcohol and Gretchen's perfume still hung in the air, clinging to everything, making my stomach turn.
I lurched off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The faucet shrieked as I wrenched it open, icy water thundering into the sink. I grabbed my toothbrush, loaded it with paste, and attacked my lips—scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. Again and again, hard enough to tear skin. I needed to erase him. The trace of his breath. The humiliation. The revulsion. Every memory of him that had ever touched me.