He Burned Our Photos For His Ex

"Take me to a clinic," I told the shadow in the backseat of the Maybach.

The driver didn't ask a single question. He dropped me at a 24-hour urgent care facility on the edge of the city.

The nausea had hit me in the car, sharp and violent. I blamed the rain. I blamed the stress of the ruined wedding. But an hour later, the emergency room doctor handed me a small, grainy printout.

"Two heartbeats," the physician announced, pointing a pen at the black-and-white smudges. "You are pregnant with twins. Your blood pressure is dangerously high. You need rest."

I traced the paper with my thumb. Two babies.

Ronan always talked about wanting a big family. He grew up an only child, lonely and isolated. This was it. This was the anchor we needed. I would show him the ultrasound, and the nightmare of yesterday would vanish. We could fix this.

I sat on the edge of our living room sofa the next morning, the ultrasound tucked safely into my pocket. The front door unlocked.

I stood up. "Ronan, I have to tell you—"

He walked into the foyer. He wasn't alone.

Sylvia leaned heavily against his side. She wore a plush cashmere sweater. Her overnight bag dangled from Ronan's opposite shoulder.

"Move your things to the guest room," Ronan ordered.

I froze. "What?"

"Sylvia was discharged this morning," he said, kicking the front door shut. "Her apartment building doesn't have an elevator. She needs a flat layout for her recovery."

"This is our home," I said.

Sylvia gripped his shirt fabric. "I told you this was a bad idea, Ro. I'll just go to a hotel. I don't want to intrude."

"You are staying here," he told her softly. He turned his glare on me. "Pack your bags, Celeste. The master bedroom is hers until she recovers."

"I am your fiancée!"

"And you caused her heart attack," he snapped. "The least you can do is help her heal. You will handle the cooking and cleaning. She needs a completely stress-free environment."

My hand drifted toward my pocket. The ultrasound paper burned against my thigh. If I told him now, he would think it was a manipulation tactic to kick Sylvia out.

"Fine," I said, dropping my hand.

I would wait. I would win him back through patience. I would show him I could be a mother, a partner, a caretaker. For the twins.

Three days passed. Sylvia treated the apartment like her personal kingdom.

I set a bowl of hot chicken broth on the mahogany dining table.

Sylvia stared at the surface of the liquid. She pushed the ceramic bowl. It slid off the edge and shattered on the hardwood floor. Hot soup splattered against my bare ankles.

"Too salty," she murmured.

"I didn't add salt," I said, grabbing a towel from the kitchen counter.

She smiled. A cold, knowing smirk crossed her pale face. "You're not going to leave, are you?"

I knelt on the floor and wiped up the mess. "I live here."

"You stay because you're trapped." She tapped her manicured nails against the table. "I saw the medical paper in your purse, Celeste."

My head snapped up.

She dangled the ultrasound photo between her index and middle fingers.

"Give that back," I demanded, reaching up.

She yanked it away. "Twins. How utterly desperate. You think a couple of brats will make him love you again?"

"It is none of your business."

"He bought me this yesterday." She raised her left hand. A massive sapphire ring rested on her finger. "The limited-edition piece you circled in that jewelry magazine last month. He didn't even remember you wanted it. He just thought the stone matched my eyes."

My chest tightened. I squeezed the wet towel.

"Give me the photo, Sylvia."

She tore the ultrasound right down the middle.

"Oops," she whispered.

She dropped the torn pieces into the puddle of spilled soup on the floor.

The front door swung open. Heavy footsteps crossed the foyer.

Sylvia immediately collapsed back into her chair. She let out a sharp, ragged gasp.

"Sylvia?" Ronan rushed into the dining room. He dropped his briefcase on the rug.

"It hurts," she whimpered, clutching her chest. "I just asked for a different soup, and she threw the bowl on the floor. The noise startled me."

Ronan stepped over the broken porcelain. He grabbed my shoulder and hauled me to my feet.

"Are you insane?" he shouted.

"She pushed it off the table!" I yelled back. "She tore up my—"

I pointed at the floor. The pieces of the ultrasound were completely soaked, the ink bleeding into a dark, unrecognizable mess of gray and black.

"She tore up what?" Ronan demanded.

"Look at her, Ro," Sylvia cried. "She hates me. I should just leave."

"You are not leaving," he said to Sylvia. He turned back to me. His jaw clenched tight. "Clean this up. Now."

"Ronan, she is lying to you."

"I saw the broken bowl, Celeste! I saw you standing over her while she held her chest. Have you no shame?"

"You don't even ask for my side of the story."

"There is no other side!" His voice rattled the dining room windows. "You are bitter. You are petty. You refused to yield a single inch on our wedding day, and now you refuse to show basic human decency to a sick woman."

"I am carrying—"

"I don't care what you are carrying!" he interrupted, cutting me off completely. "If you can't behave, get out of my house."

He scooped Sylvia into his arms. She buried her face in his neck. Over his shoulder, she locked eyes with me.

She smiled.

He carried her down the hall and kicked the master bedroom door shut.

Midnight struck. The apartment went dead silent.

I sat on the cold tiles of the guest bathroom floor. The door was locked. The lights were off.

I hugged my knees to my chest. I bit down hard on a bundled-up washcloth.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast. My shoulders shook violently in the dark.

I couldn't make a sound. If Ronan heard me crying, he would accuse me of seeking attention. He would come in here and defend her again.

I pressed my hand against my flat stomach.

Two heartbeats. I stayed for them. I endured the humiliation for the family I thought we were building.

A muffled thud echoed from the master bedroom next door.

Then, a soft moan. Sylvia's voice.

I pulled the washcloth from my mouth. I pressed my ear against the shared drywall.

"Ronan," she whispered through the wall.

"I've got you," his deep voice replied.

The bed frame squeaked. A rhythmic, steady sound.

My blood ran ice cold.

I reached for my phone on the bathroom counter. The cracked screen illuminated the dark room.

I opened my contacts. I scrolled past Ronan. I scrolled past Maya.

I stopped on the name I hadn't called in three years.

*Arthur Dupont.*

My thumb hovered over the dial button.