He Turned Our Son Into Her Project—Now He Crumbles

Two weeks after my miscarriage, I forced myself to stand and do one last inspection for Ethan Hayes’ upcoming International Art Exhibition in San Francisco.

I froze in front of a newly added display booth.

Inside was the baby I had just lost two weeks ago.

Next to the exhibit’s description, there was even a positive pregnancy test taped on the wall.

I stared at Ethan, trembling all over, and slapped him hard across the face.

“So this is how my baby became one of your art pieces?”

Ethan frowned, his voice sharp.

“It was just a mistake made by the new intern — she’s just a kid.”

“Come on, you’re an adult. Don’t get worked up over a little girl’s mistake. The official exhibit is the day after tomorrow, we’ll take it down.”

I was ready to explode, but just then my phone rang.

After listening to the voice on the other end, I suddenly felt calm.

I turned to Ethan and gave him a smile.

“Alright.”

I hoped that on the day of the exhibition, when I handed him the “gift” I had prepared, he would still be this calm.

…

My sudden calmness made Ethan glance at me in surprise, but he didn’t think much of it.

At that moment, a young girl was brought to us, head lowered pitifully.

“I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad, it was my fault. I was careless and accidentally moved this unfinished piece here.”

“It’s fine, Zoey. Just be careful next time. Don’t make your future sister-in-law upset again.”

Ethan said lazily, even tapping her on the head in a teasing manner.

“Ethan, you’re going to make me dumb if you keep doing that!”

“I’ve already finished setting up the preview event for tomorrow. How about I take you to see it?”

Zoey swung Ethan’s arm playfully, dragging him toward the exit.

I had just calmed down, but when I heard that the embryo was Zoey’s so-called “artwork,” rage shot through me.

How dare she!

I had carried that baby for four months, endured over a hundred progesterone injections just to keep the pregnancy.

Later, when Ethan went with me for a prenatal checkup, he told me the baby was a stillbirth.

I lay on that cold operating table in despair.

And now, I was seeing my baby again — as someone else’s art installation.

Watching their interlocked fingers as they left, I grabbed a nearby tool and smashed the display case.

Shards of glass flew everywhere, nearly cutting into my eye.

I screamed as blood streamed down from the corner of my eye.

Clutching what had rolled out of the shattered case, I trembled violently, tears mixing with blood.

“Baby, I’m so sorry… Mommy failed to protect you…”

Hearing my scream, Ryan Hayes rushed back.

“Claire!”

He hurried to my side. I thought he would check on my injury,

but his eyes locked on the embryo in my arms, and anger filled his voice.

“Claire Summers! What are you doing! This is Zoey’s very first art piece — how could you destroy it? Do you know how hard she worked?”

For a moment, even the stabbing pain in my chest seemed to pause.

Yes, it was her “artwork.”

But that was my dead baby!

“Ethan Hayes! Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten how I nearly died from the miscarriage? How I bled out and was rushed into the ICU? Do you remember what you said back then?”

Back then, when the baby was gone, he had clutched me in his arms, crying, and told me:

“It’s okay, Claire. This baby just wasn’t meant for us. We’ll have another one.”

And now, all he cared about was a piece of art.

He was momentarily speechless.

I ignored him, struggling to stand on my own.