I lost my sight about ten years years ago, which was the only reason my younger sister dared to use me as her substitute, allowing me to stay by Tristan's side for six whole years. During that time, Tristan was the epitome of gentleness, transforming into what everyone admired as a devoted husband. I didn't even need a cane—he cared for me so attentively that he became a model spouse in the eyes of others.
But when I finally overcame countless obstacles to restore my sight and rushed to him, the first words I heard were, "For Anya, I wasted six years taking care of a blind woman. Now that Zara's pregnant, I doubt Anya will remain indifferent."
That same night, a traffic violation ticket landed in my hands. The surveillance footage showed Tristan and Anya tangled in passion inside his car. I ended everything without hesitation. Yet, the man who once dismissed me as a blind woman was the one who unraveled first.
***
"Mrs. Anders, your eyes have recovered remarkably well. All those days of regular injections and diligent treatment have paid off. It's heartbreaking to see how much you've suffered, especially with side effects like vomiting," the doctor said, his tone gentle yet professional.
The office was bright and sterile, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence. As soon as the doctor finished speaking, the nurses broke into smiles, their warm congratulations surrounding me. Their faces were kind, their words genuine, but they only added to the ache in my chest.
I had endured months of searing pain from daily injections, my body bruised and exhausted. My sole motivation had been Tristan—to surprise him, to see his face light up when I opened my eyes for the first time in years. But now, their cheerful voices grated against the memory of his words, the first ones I'd heard with my restored vision: "For Anya, I wasted six years taking care of a blind woman. Now that Zara is pregnant, I doubt she'll still remain indifferent."
If these kind-hearted people knew the truth, would they still congratulate me?
The side effects of the treatments had ravaged me—days spent clinging to the cold porcelain of our bathroom, my stomach twisting violently as I vomited over and over. Tristan would pat my back absentmindedly, his comforting words slowly fading as the weeks dragged on. Now, looking back, it all seemed grotesquely futile.
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Anders, isn't your husband picking you up today? He must be overjoyed," a nurse said brightly, her tone full of genuine delight.
I froze, forcing a weak smile to my lips as I lowered my gaze. My fingers curled tightly into my palms, the nails biting into my skin until the color drained from my hands. "He's busy with work today," I murmured. "I can manage on my own."
The nurse nodded sympathetically, but her comment lingered in the air like a taunt. Tristan had been there for every treatment at the start. His presence had been reassuring, his hand steadying me through every injection. The staff had adored him, calling him a "model husband." But somewhere along the way, his visits became sporadic. Then they stopped altogether.
I glanced down at my phone, at the curt message he'd sent earlier: [Team-building event tonight. I'll be home late.]
I wanted to laugh, but the sound wouldn't come. Was it truly work, or just another excuse? My answer came hours later when a coworker's live stream popped up on social media. Tristan's face, so familiar and once so comforting, now twisted the knife deeper. He was seated close to Anya, their heads bent together in private conversation. Every accidental brush of their hands sparked something electric between them, the kind of connection he used to share with me.
I thought I wanted to see again. In that moment, I almost wished for my blindness back. At least then, I wouldn't have to witness the truth.
But there was something more urgent I had to face. My footsteps echoed through the hospital's quiet corridors until I reached the obstetrics and gynecology department. The sterile air prickled at my skin as I sat in the waiting room, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. Hours passed before I finally made my way to the operating table.
"Are you certain you want to go through with this? The procedure carries risks, especially after all you've been through," the doctor said, her voice tinged with concern.
My breath hitched, my resolve faltering for a heartbeat. But then Tristan's cruel words replayed in my mind: "This child is nothing more than a tool to make Anya jealous."
My nails dug into my palms once more, grounding me in the icy reality of my situation. I swallowed hard and nodded.
The cold instruments pressed against my body, their touch clinical and unfeeling. But no physical pain could compare to the chill of Tristan's words, their venom sinking deeper into my soul.
And yet, just that morning, he had cupped my face in his hands, his lips warm and tender against mine. "Be good and stay home," he'd said. "I'll take you out for dinner tonight."
I'd believed him. Six years by his side and I'd convinced myself that my love could thaw the ice in his heart. But it had all been an illusion—a cruel mirage.
As I left the operating room, my phone buzzed with a call. Anya's voice was sharp and unapologetic. "Tristan said you're pregnant. Get rid of it, will you? A bastard is still a bastard. Did you really think a baby would keep him?"
Her words hit like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, but then I heard it—a male voice in the background, low and unmistakably familiar. Tristan.
"Anya, after your shower, go to bed early. Don't catch a cold. I promise I'll make it official tomorrow—you'll be my new assistant," Tristan said, his voice warm, dripping with a false gentleness that had once been mine.
I stood just outside the hospital door, my fingers curling against the door frame until my knuckles turned white. The muffled sounds of their laughter pierced through the crack. Then came the onslaught of kisses, wet and desperate, accompanied by hushed giggles and the sound of skin brushing against fabric. My chest tightened, each sound a dagger that drove deeper.
I didn't know what hurt more—my shattered spirit or my battered body. My legs felt weak and I leaned against the door for support. I no longer had the strength to bear this.
That evening, Tristan stumbled into our room, reeking of alcohol. His gait was uneven, but his face glowed with an eerie cheerfulness. His eyes held a spark of glee, but it wasn't for me.
"I brought you something to eat. Get up and have a bite," he said, his tone brusque yet oddly playful. He placed a container on the nightstand, then reached down to help me sit up.
The scent of steamed dumplings wafted through the air, stirring a pang of nausea in my stomach. My gaze fell on the transparent container. It was only half full, the edges smudged with soy sauce. Someone had already eaten the rest.
I forced a smile, my lips dry and cracking under the strain. "I remember Anya loved steamed dumplings the most," I said, my voice quiet but deliberate.
The light in Tristan's eyes dimmed instantly. His playful demeanor froze and an impatient frown crept across his face. He sighed heavily, as if I had ruined some perfect illusion. After a pause, he adjusted his tone, layering it with forced patience.
"Why bring her up now? Aren't we married? You're even carrying our child."
His hand reached out, brushing against my stomach. The touch was light, almost tender, but it burned like ice against my skin. He didn't know—the child he spoke of, the one he had never truly cared for, was long gone. Nothing remained now, not even the possibility of life.
"Yes, we're married," I replied, my voice brittle, each word tasting of ash.
Tristan didn't notice the bitterness in my tone. He turned away, heading toward the bathroom, his movements quick and restless. I watched his reflection on the glass door, his face strained as he raised his phone to his ear.
"Did you tell Zara you've returned to the country?" His voice was low but sharp, each word cutting like a blade. "I'm already in a mess right now. Give me some time and I'll sort this out."
My chest tightened as I listened. So, he was planning to end this marriage. But for whom? The sharp sound of a scream from his phone broke my thoughts.
"I don't care! I'm coming over now!" the woman on the other end cried, her voice shrilled with desperation.
Tristan slammed his fist against the bathroom wall, the sound echoing through the room. He looked cornered, his vulnerability raw and exposed. For all his posturing, Tristan had always been fragile, breaking under the weight of his lies.
"What's going on?" I called out, feigning concern.
"Nothing," he replied quickly, his voice uneven. "Something fell."
Moments later, the bathroom light flicked off and he emerged, carrying the coolness of the night with him. Sliding into bed beside me, he pulled the blanket over my shoulders and spoke in a coaxing tone.
"Now that you're pregnant, you should rest more. Go to sleep."
But his eyes, reflecting the pale moonlight, weren't on me. They were distant, lost in thoughts of someone else.
I lay stiffly, my back to him, pretending to sleep. The silence stretched on until he suddenly turned, his movements abrupt, his expression tense. I felt his gaze on me, searching, but I didn't move.
Eventually, he slipped out of bed. The soft creak of the door was followed by voices in the hall.
"I told you I'd come to see you tomorrow," Tristan said, his tone edged with frustration.
A woman's voice, trembling with sobs, replied, "And I told you I want to see you today. If you won't come to me, then I'll come to you. Don't you love me?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. My chest tightened as I waited for his answer, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
Finally, I heard him speak, his voice low and hoarse. "I do."
Two words. Short, simple and yet they shattered everything.
Lying there in the dark, my vision blurred with tears, I clutched the blanket tightly to my chest. Those words weren't for me. They never had been.
Before I knew it, my pillow was soaked with tears and my entire head throbbed with a hollow, numbing ache. The faint light of the moon filtered through the curtains, illuminating the stillness of my side of the room. Yet outside the door, the muffled sounds of passion broke the silence—soft laughter, whispered words and the wet sounds of lingering kisses.
Separated by just a wall, it felt as though two entirely different worlds had taken shape. In one, intimacy bloomed. In the other, I lay alone, cradling my shattered heart.
Sleep was a distant memory. My trembling hands reached for my phone, the device feeling cold and unfamiliar. I scrolled through my long-neglected social media feed, hoping for a distraction.
I had few friends listed—mostly employees from Tristan's company, people I had added out of obligation rather than genuine connection. Among them, Anya stood out as the most active. Her posts dominated my feed, each update a carefully curated dagger aimed at my pride.
Two nights ago, she had posted: [Oh my god, making out with my boyfriend in the car and got caught by the police. So embarrassing and we even got fined!]
A few days before that: [That jerk still clings to me like before, wouldn't let me go all night. My legs are so sore and now I have to nap all day.]
The words blurred as tears spilled onto the screen, but no amount of crying could erase Anya's smug smile in her profile picture—a perfectly posed snapshot of triumph.
But these posts were only the surface. My call log revealed more of her relentless pursuit. Over thirty missed calls from Anya in recent weeks. She always seemed to find new ways to remind me of my place, painting me as the interloper who had stolen Tristan from her. In her mind, now that she was back, it was only right for me to return him.
It seemed I would be stepping aside soon enough.
To drown out the intimate sounds from the other side of the wall, I pulled the blanket over my head, cocooning myself in the oppressive heat of my despair. Yet even then, sleep eluded me until dawn broke.
When the first light of morning crept into the room, I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. My bare feet padded softly against the cold tiles as I splashed water on my face, the icy chill shocking my swollen eyes. Just as I was about to return to bed, the bedroom door creaked open behind me.
"Zara, why didn't you call me if you needed the bathroom?" Tristan's voice was low and groggy but carried a faint edge of concern.
I froze, the words catching in my throat as I turned to see him. His disheveled appearance was a stark contrast to the Tristan I once knew. His neck and chest bore faint marks of earlier passion, a silent testimony to what had transpired with Anya.
For a moment, I felt exposed, caught in the raw vulnerability of the situation. It took several seconds before I managed to speak. "I can manage on my own," I said, my voice barely audible.
Tristan, oblivious to my discomfort, stepped forward to flush the toilet for me. Then, with an automatic familiarity, he guided me back to bed, his hand steady on my arm.
But before we could reach the bed, a figure appeared in the doorway. Anya stood there, barefoot and unabashed, her loose hair cascading over Tristan's shirt—the same white shirt he had worn to bed the night before.
Her lips curved into a playful smirk as she bit down on them, her eyes sparkling with malice. Then, without a care, she threw herself against Tristan's chest, her arms wrapping around him possessively.
I stood frozen, my insides churning as I watched them. Two bodies, so close and so exposed, made me feel like an outsider in my own life. A pitiful clown performing in a tragic farce.
Forcing a smile, I turned away and crawled back under the blanket. "I'm going to sleep now," I murmured, though my voice cracked with the strain of holding back tears.
The rising sun illuminated the room in soft, golden hues, but I kept my gaze fixed on the window, unable to close my eyes.
When Tristan left for work later that morning, Anya lingered behind. She moved through the house with a sense of entitlement, her bare feet padding softly on the floor as if she owned the space.
Eventually, she perched on the edge of my bed, her legs crossed and her posture casual. The crisp white shirt she wore hung loosely on her slender frame, the collar slipping down one shoulder.
"Don't you understand what I'm saying?" she said, her tone sharp yet deceptively sweet. "Tristan loves me. If you're smart, you'll abort your child and divorce him immediately."
Her words hit with the force of a slap, but my heart was beyond breaking. I had no more tears to shed. My lips moved mechanically, forming the response I knew would defuse her venom.
"I've already aborted the baby," I said quietly, my voice flat. "You can rest assured."
For a moment, Anya's expression flickered with doubt. Then she snorted, her lips curling into a cold smile. "You say you've aborted it, but if I find out you lied to me...." Her voice trailed off, a threat heavy in the air. "I won't let you off."
With that, she stormed out, her bare feet thudding against the floor.
As the door slammed shut, a strange calm washed over me. Strictly speaking, Anya was my stepmother's daughter—a product of my father's betrayal. My father had abandoned my aging mother years ago, leaving her to wither away in loneliness.
Now, I had become my mother's stand-in, the family's punching bag, stripped of dignity and purpose. But I had made up my mind: none of it mattered anymore. Not Anya's taunts, not Tristan's empty words, nor the nights spent listening to him love someone else.
