I refused to apologize, so Chuck grabbed my arm and dragged me to the car.

I hadn't eaten all day. After the hospital tests, it was already late afternoon. His grip was tight—I couldn't shake him off. I ended up going with him.

When we pulled up, it wasn't just Ella waiting. He'd invited a whole squad—his buddies, her besties. A full ambush.

The second I walked in, they came for me.

Randy gave me this disapproving look. "Diana, no offense, but you're being unreasonable.

"Chuck's just helping his ex out. She's a single mom. And now you're bullying her and her kid? You're a woman—you should get it.

"Do I seriously have to spell this out as a man?"

Funny. Same guy who'd commented under Ella's post, [Congrats! Wishing you a happy life together.]

The more they talked, the more suffocated I felt.

Then Ella's friend Poppy jumped in. "Yeah, Diana, try stepping into Ella's shoes. You wouldn't get how painful this is unless it happened to you."

I snapped. "Great idea. Why don't you take her home and share your man with her? That way she won't have to deal with me. Let your husband foot the bill instead."

Poppy's face twisted. "That's different. Chuck's rich. He can afford to help Ella."

The shamelessness was unreal.

Chuck, sensing the blow-up coming, tried to play peacemaker. "Come on, just have a drink. Say sorry and let's end this. No need for drama."

I was pregnant. I couldn't drink. I shook my head.

His expression iced over. His eyes locked on me, dark and unrelenting. "Drink it. Apologize to Ella."

He shoved the glass at my mouth. I slapped it away.

"I can't drink!"

The glass hit the floor and shattered.

His face hardened. Voice like a blade. "I'll say it one more time. Drink. Then apologize."

I opened my mouth to explain, but he grabbed my chin and forced the bottle to my lips. I tried to pull back—he didn't let go.

I gagged as the liquor scorched my throat. My stomach felt like it exploded.

My face flushed hot.

Chuck sneered. "Wow, didn't know you could drink like that. Drop the act—I've seen you throw 'em back before."

He wasn't wrong. I used to drink for him at work dinners. Took shots for him. Got clients drunk for him. Ruined my health for him.

Back then, I was his lucky star. Now, not drinking made me fake.

My hands were shaking. I felt sick.

They kept yelling. I turned to leave.

Chuck yanked me back and shoved me onto the couch. My stomach slammed into the sharp edge of the table.

The pain hit hard—blinding and instant. My head spun. My stomach throbbed. I couldn't move.

Chuck barked, "Get up! Stop faking! Say sorry!"

He grabbed me again, dragging me upright.

Then I saw it—the blood on the floor.

Everything went black.

Somewhere in the blur, I heard someone scoff, "What a drama queen... seriously?"

Then someone gasped. "Is she dying? There's so much blood!"