My Husband Made Me Miscarry, Now He Crawls Back in Tears

Tristan's silhouette retreated with brutal finality, but I didn't have time to indulge in grief. I forced my emotions down and messaged Dad, telling him to contact the heart donor as soon as possible.

He called back within minutes. "Meredith, don't worry—I've reached them. I won't let anything happen to your brother."

There was a tremor of urgency in his voice, as if he waited for me to reassure him.

I answered coldly, "If my brother can't be saved, then that's the end between us."

Silence on the other end turned frantic; he kept promising everything. But promises were the last thing I trust now.

I decided to go home to collect a few important things and leave for good. At the front door, I discovered the lock had been changed, so I had to knock.

"Tristan—" Hillary's coquettish voice trailed off the instant she saw me. "Oh? It's you."

She acted surprised. "Why didn't you just open the door yourself?"

Her eyes shone with unabashed provocation. Then, as if remembering something, she tapped her forehead dramatically. "Oh dear—how forgetful of me. Tristan changed the code this morning ‘for safety.' Looks like you won't be getting in anymore."

I ignored her and walked straight to the master bedroom. I pushed the door open and was met with chaos. Our wedding photos—Tristan and I—were shattered on the floor, and even the custom gifts I once treasured lay ruined among the debris.

"Really sorry about the mess." Hillary leaned against the doorframe. "I didn't expect you back so soon. Haven't had time to tidy up. Maybe...you could make do in the utility room for now?"

I walked across the shards of glass to the wardrobe, dug out my documents from the back, and turned to leave. As I passed her, my foot caught on something and I fell backward, collapsing hard onto the broken glass.

A sharp, stabbing pain seared across my back. I gasped.

"Hillary!" I bit out through clenched teeth.

Footsteps rushed over, and Tristan appeared. Hillary immediately flung herself into his arms, her face suddenly went pale. "Tristan, hurry—take Meredith to the hospital! She came back, and when saw me, she flew into a rage and smashed things; she must have fallen..."

Only then did Tristan look at me properly. But there was no trace of concern in his eyes—only a coldness edged with disgust.

"Meredith! Hillary is already carrying my child. She'll be staying here from now on. No matter how you scream or put on a show, my mind won't change!"

"In your eyes, am I that kind of person?" My voice trembled.

"Hillary is gentle and kind—she would never do something like this. Who else could it be but you?" He said it with absolute conviction, then softened his gaze on Hillary. "This room's no good. Let's go somewhere else."

His attitude started changing a year ago. Whatever I'd been through, he no longer asked—he judged me without hesitation. The cracks had been there a long time; I'd just been blind to them until now.

I remembered how someone had vandalized Hillary's grave. The Gibson family had stormed over and forced me to confess. Tristan never asked a single question—he protected me fiercely. The Gibson family insisted on punishing me; he spent three days and nights finding the true culprit.

I ran my fingers over his tired, bloodshot eyes and asked, "Why did you believe me back then?"

He cupped my face and smiled. "You're the one I love most. If I don't believe you, who will I believe?"

After that, he never visited Hillary's grave again. I once thought I had finally stepped into his heart. I never imagined that all that unwavering protection had been an act from the start.

I found the first-aid kit and cleaned the wound on my back as best I could. Just as I was about to book a hotel, my phone pinged with a security alert: abnormal activity on the surveillance feed. Compelled, I opened the app.

The camera showed the nursery we'd once so carefully decorated. Tristan and Hillary were there—disheveled, and intimate.

Hillary slyly twined his restless fingers and murmured, "My father's heart transplant can't wait any longer..."

Tristan kissed the back of her hand with indulgent tenderness. "Don't worry—I've taken care of it. Coincidentally, the heart that matches your father's is from Meredith's brother. I arranged the surgery this afternoon."

My hand trembled; the phone almost slipped from my grasp.