Love Can't Afford to Make Mistakes Time and Time Again

"Honey, come one, don't be angry. I'd never think of you that way. We both want a child, don't we?" Zane's voice was calm, almost soothing, but it grated on my ears.

I felt my chest tighten and my voice cracked as I responded, "Zane, I don't want this child. Right now, I feel like I'm going insane."

The words spilled out before I could stop them. The truth was suffocating, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. Trying to conceive this child had pushed me to the brink. Every day felt like a relentless cycle of hopeless routine.

The moment I opened my eyes each morning, I was greeted by the dull monotony of my regimen—taking medicine, sitting under the sun as if it could magically heal my despair and anxiously awaiting Zane's return, hoping for even a sliver of comfort from him.

I couldn't escape the weight of my mother-in-law's passive-aggressive remarks, her sharp tongue slicing through my already fragile composure. My parents weren't any better; their constant nagging about having a baby echoed in my mind, a relentless chorus of disappointment.

I slumped onto the sofa, hugging a stuffed toy like a lifeline. Hot tears streamed down my face, soaking the fabric as sobs racked my body.

Zane stood a few steps away, his arms crossed, watching me. His silence was unbearable, his gaze detached—as if he were an observer of someone else's misery. I wanted him to move, to speak, to do something.

All I wanted was a hug. Just a simple, human gesture to remind me I wasn't alone in this hell. But he didn't move. His expression was unreadable, his calmness maddening as I unraveled before him.

My sobs slowed, but the pain in my chest only grew heavier. Finally, Zane stepped forward. Without a word, he scooped me into his arms. I stiffened, his touch no longer a comfort but a reminder of how distant we'd become.

He carried me to bed, his grip firm yet mechanical, like he was fulfilling an obligation. Lowering his head, he tried to kiss me. I turned my face away, the gesture instinctive.

He paused but didn't get angry. Instead, he lay down beside me, wrapping me in his arms. His warmth should have been reassuring, but it felt like being buried alive. My heart plummeted into an abyss of cold despair.

Less than half an hour later, his phone rang. I didn't need to ask who it was; I already knew. He answered quickly, his voice lowering as he muttered something I couldn't hear. Moments later, he was up and out the door.

The emptiness of the room pressed down on me like a crushing weight. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a photo from Sabrina.

She and Zane were at The Ritz, a small candlelit cake between them. Sabrina wore a radiant smile, her face turned slightly toward Zane, who looked back at her with a soft expression. My lips curled into a bitter smile. 'So, love really can overcome all obstacles, can't it?'

Zane was terrified of heights—always had been. Despite his image as a high-powered CEO known throughout Arlington, he insisted his office be on the second floor. As a child, his half-brother had locked him in the attic overnight, leaving him trembling and broken until I found him the next morning.

For him to dine at The Ritz, perched high above the city? He must have been utterly and hopelessly in love with Sabrina.

***

The next morning, Zane still hadn't come home. The hours dragged on in silence until my phone buzzed again. It was a message from Sabrina: an address.

Curiosity—and perhaps a twinge of masochism—compelled me to go. The location turned out to be a bustling book signing event.

I wandered through the store, my fingers brushing over the spines of books, their glossy covers gleaming under fluorescent lights. A display near the center caught my attention. Rows of books with Sabrina's name adorned the table, each copy bearing the same title: [The Scars That Shaped Me.]

I picked one up and flipped through it absentmindedly. The words on the pages grew increasingly familiar, striking like lightning through my mind. The further I read, the more horrified I became.

It was my story.

Every painful scar, every humiliation, every heartbreak—it was all laid bare, written in ink for the world to see. The neglect I endured from my parents, the betrayal of my childhood sweetheart, my naive, girlish love for Zane...

Shame and fury collided within me, setting my blood ablaze. I was a novelist, yes, but I had never considered exposing my pain to the world. The only person who could have betrayed me like this was Zane.

My grip tightened on the book as a pair of sharp heels clicked against the floor. I turned to see Sabrina strutting toward me, her red stilettos and fitted dress exuding confidence.

"Emma," she greeted, her tone dripping with mockery. "Surprised? I became a famous author before you did."

Her smirk widened as she held up a copy of her book, waving it like a trophy.

"Sabrina!" My voice trembled with rage. "Aren't you afraid I'll sue you?"

She laughed lightly, leaning in until her breath brushed my ear. "Emma, you're still as naive as ever."

Then, with a theatrical sway, she stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as she looked up at me, her expression a perfect picture of distress.

"Emma," she whimpered, her voice loud enough to draw attention. "Why did you push me? I only turned your story into a novel..."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, their judgmental gazes pinning me in place like daggers.

Rage burned through me like wildfire. I stormed forward and slapped her hard across the face. The sound echoed sharply, silencing the murmurs around us.

"Sabrina, I am not the same Emma you used to bully! Since you all want to paint me as the villain, then I'll be the villain to the very end!"

The crowd recoiled, whispers bubbling up like a boiling pot.

Suddenly, Zane burst through the throng, his face a mixture of anger and panic. He shoved me hard, sending me sprawling to the ground. A sharp, searing pain radiated through my abdomen.

He bent down, scooping Sabrina into his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world. His face twisted with urgency and disgust as he glared down at me.

"Emma, you're bullying Sabrina again?! She's pregnant, you vicious woman!"

His words struck harder than his shove. He didn't even glance at me as he carried her away, leaving me crumpled on the ground.

The pain in my ankle was unbearable, swelling like a grotesque bun. Yet, no one moved to help me. The whispers continued, the crowd's judgment lingering like a dark cloud.