He Sacrificed Me for Her, I Made Him Regret It

She pulled me down beside her, though every instinct in my body resisted her touch.

Dinner stretched on, drinks flowing.

Sophia grew tipsy, raising her glass of wine again and again, urging me to drink.

I waved her off.

“I’d better not. William and I are trying for a baby, you know that.”

But William, who usually forbade me from touching alcohol, spoke up:

“It’s her birthday. Just have one drink. You’re not ovulating for a while anyway.”

Had he already forgotten what we did just a few nights ago?

Before I could reply, others chimed in:

“Come on, Anna, Sophia never urges anyone to drink—she must really like you!”

“She’s showing you respect by toasting you!”

Feeling cornered, I opened my mouth and swallowed a sip.

But Sophia forced the entire glass to my lips, making me drink it all.

I choked, coughing, and clutched the table.

Sophia, meanwhile, grew more jubilant, raising her glass to everyone:

“Thank you all for coming to celebrate. My real thirtieth birthday isn’t for a few months yet.”

“But tonight, I want to celebrate something else.”

“The most important event of my life—my research project is about to succeed!”

Applause and cheers filled the room.

She then looked straight at William and me.

“The people I’m most grateful to are William and his wife, Anna Collins!”

Murmurs of confusion spread among the guests.

The smile on William’s face froze instantly.

Leaning close, he whispered to me:

“She’s drunk. I’ll take her home and come back for you.”

Dizzy from the wine, I nodded.

But I waited and waited.

The guests left. The restaurant closed.

Still, he never returned.

Groggy, I hailed a cab home.

When I entered, William wasn’t back yet. His Spanish notes were scattered across the floor.

I was too irritable from the alcohol to tidy them. Instead, I kicked them aside.

Dirty shoe prints smudged the papers.

When William finally came home and saw the mess, he snapped:

“Anna Collins, what are you doing? Do you have any idea how important these are to me?”

Still tipsy, I burst into tears.

“William, why are you yelling at me? You didn’t put them away yourself! I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Seeing my tears, his tone softened.

“I… Just don’t touch my things again.”

I collapsed into sleep on the floor.

When I woke, William had already left. His weekends were always busier than weekdays.

The notes had been carefully flattened and laid back out on the desk.

Curiosity gnawed at me.

What was so important about them?

I pulled out my phone’s translation app and scanned one page.

His handwriting was messy; the translation came out fragmented.

But a few words stood out: “pregnant women,” “deformity,” “drug effects,” “IQ.”

I scanned more pages, though most of the terms were too technical.

I saved screenshots of the translations, planning to show them to my lab colleague when I collected the test results.

Four days later, we met as arranged.

She handed me the report, her eyes filled with pity.

“This drug contains nothing beneficial for pregnant women at all.”