Diego hadn’t left me because he thought I cheated.
Diego had known from the very beginning that I was pregnant.
He had known because he and Paula were the ones monitoring the abortifacient schedule.
When my body failed to miscarry in January—when the tiny, resilient heart inside my womb refused to stop beating—Diego panicked. He fabricated the vasectomy narrative, staged the public scandal, and attempted to force me into signing an emergency divorce settlement before my sixteen-week anatomy scan could expose the true timeline of conception.
“You knew,” I whispered.
The words were barely louder than a breath, but they sliced through the room like a razor blade drawn across dry slate.
“You knew I was carrying your child in November, Diego.”
“You knew before you went to the clinic in January.”
“You tried to murder our baby in my own kitchen.”
Diego’s hands began to shake with a violent, uncontrollable palsy.
