Buster barked loudly beside her, as if expressing his discontent. The little dog circled her in agitation, yapping with displeasure. Chloe, now both nauseated and in shock, crawled on the grass in a panic, reaching out blindly—desperately searching for Mark for help.
Her hand brushed against the hem of his trousers.
But the moment her fingers touched him, Mark stepped back abruptly, shaking her off with a look of disgust, as though he couldn't stand even a second of her presence. Without sparing her another glance, he turned on his heel and walked directly toward me, his expression full of guilt and urgency.
He stopped in front of me and, as if trying to reclaim something already lost, he said earnestly, "Clara, I know now. I know you never liked her, and I promise—I won't see her again. You're still angry, but it's okay. Come home with me. Let's start over."
He reached out, pretending to gently pull me along as if his repentance made everything disappear.
But before his hand could touch me, Ethan stepped forward and blocked him with a cold, unwavering gaze.
"Step aside," Ethan said firmly.
The tension crackled between them. A single spark would've been enough to start a fight.
But I raised my voice first. "Mark, do you remember that night two months ago? The one where you threw me out of the car?"
His face froze mid-expression.
"I was already two months pregnant that night."
Silence fell. He looked at me as if he had just been struck, his eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat. His lips trembled as he tried to process my words.
He had thought I was on my period. He had looked at me with disgust when he thought I had stained his precious car seat.
He never imagined the truth—that it was our child.
I didn't wait for his response. Instead, I looked him straight in the eye and said, slowly and clearly, "It was pouring rain. I couldn't find a taxi. Blood was soaking through my clothes, and it wouldn't stop."
"The doctor said if I'd arrived even a little earlier… the baby might have survived."
His knees buckled slightly, and he collapsed to the ground, numb. His gaze locked on my abdomen, his eyes vacant, lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His hands trembled.
"How… how could this be…"
I looked down at the broken man on the grass. My voice was cold and sharp as a blade.
"Mark, it was you who killed our child with your own hands."
"You want forgiveness?" I sneered. "You're not worthy of it."
That day was the last time I saw Mark in person.
I moved on.
Months passed, and one day, I received an ornate envelope. It was a wedding invitation from Mark.
The card was delicately embossed, but the handwritten note inside was stiff, almost resentful.
"As you wished, I'm marrying Chloe. Will you attend our wedding?"
I had long since buried everything that connected me to him emotionally. So I accepted the invitation. I was no longer angry. I was, simply, curious.
On the day of their wedding, I arrived calmly, dressed in elegance and indifference.
I saw Chloe in her wedding gown. To my surprise, it wasn't the designer dress I had ordered for myself—but a cheap imitation.
Despite the thick makeup on her face, she couldn't hide the pallor beneath. Her eyes were sunken, her smile forced.
When she saw me, she forced a smirk and sneered, "Mark and I have been childhood sweethearts. We're finally together, just like fate intended."
"Not like someone who clung to him for eight years and still walked away with nothing."
I folded my arms and looked her up and down with cool amusement. "Oh? If your love is so deep, why did the two of you spend so many years apart in the first place?"
"Funny," I continued, "I came across some articles while I was in Paris. Rumors, mostly—but some pretty entertaining ones. There's an American woman in those reports who really enjoys—"
"Shut up!" Chloe shrieked, her face twisting in fury.
Her outburst drew the attention of others in the dressing room, who began whispering.
Realizing she'd lost control, Chloe forced a smile and quickly changed the subject. "It's a big day for me," she said with exaggerated joy. "And the baby in my belly is happy too."
She rubbed her belly gently and cast a triumphant glance at me, as if expecting me to break down.
Later, at the ceremony, Mark entered the venue with Chloe on his arm. The moment he spotted me in the audience, a flicker of pained life returned to his otherwise lifeless face. His eyes locked onto mine, pleading. But I remained composed, unreadable.
Chloe, sensing the shift, gripped his hand tightly, her smile stiffening.
She dragged him up to the stage as the wedding proceeded.
Just as they were about to exchange rings, the lights dimmed and a video began to play on the massive screen behind them.
In the video, Chloe was clinging to another man, her arms wrapped around his neck.
"Baby," she cooed, "Mark is so boring. Always working. You're the only one who really knows how to treat me."
The man laughed and leaned closer. When his hand reached toward her, she swatted him away and gently patted her stomach. Smiling, she whispered, "Careful. We can't be too rough. I have to keep the baby healthy."