"For the sake of these five years and for this unexpected child."

My own voice sounded exhausted beyond words.

"Clara, this is the last time."

Under my parents' disappointed gaze–eyes filled with frustration that I still refused to learn my lesson–I followed her back to Northwood City.

On the plane, she clutched my hand tightly, as if afraid of losing a treasure she only just regained.

However, as I looked out at the endless sea of clouds, my heart felt strangely hollow.

This forgiveness was a gamble.

What I was risking was the last shred of hope I left–and the life of an innocent child.

…

During the first two weeks after we returned to Northwood City, Clara was unusually careful.

She took over all the housework, came home from work on time, and reported every little detail of her day.

She bought pregnancy guides and books about prenatal education. At night, she would sit against the headboard, gently stroking her still-flat stomach while reading stories in the same soft, reassuring voice she used with her therapy patients.

"Our baby will be the happiest child in the world."

Her eyes sparkled when she said it, just like they used to.

However, shadows have a way of lingering.

Strange phone numbers began appearing on her phone–missed calls from unfamiliar numbers.

She would glance at them, hang up irritably, then block the number.

"Probably him calling from different numbers again. He just won't leave me alone."

That was her explanation, though a flicker in her eyes betrayed something she could not quite hide.

Then came the requests from anonymous social media accounts.

The verification messages were painfully emotional:

"Dr. Miller, I know I shouldn't disturb your happiness. But without you, my world is gray. I can't even pick up a paintbrush anymore."

She rejected the request right in front of me. But her finger lingered on the words for a moment longer than necessary.

One day, after we finished her prenatal checkup–the baby was healthy, the heartbeat strong–I tried to let myself sink into the fragile joy of becoming a father.

Holding her hand, I walked with her out of the hospital.

Her phone rang again.

It was Dr. Hayes, Adrian's new attending physician.

"Dr. Miller, sorry to bother you. Adrian is strongly resisting treatment. He mentioned some details about his childhood abuse, things that only you know. It's crucial for the diagnosis. Could you possibly–"

Clara stepped aside and lowered her voice, speaking for a long time.

When she came back, her brows were tightly furrowed, and her expression strained.

"Work trouble?" I asked, the faint joy in my chest already clouded over.

"Yeah. Just a small issue."

She tried to put an arm around me, but her movements were stiff.

That night, I woke up thirsty.

Her side of the bed was empty.

A faint light glowed in the living room.

Clara sat on the sofa, staring at her phone screen. One hand gently stroked her stomach, her face pale in the cold glow of the display.

On the screen was Adrian's anonymous Facebook account.

Ten minutes earlier, he posted:

[If the care you gave me was fake, then what was all that warmth before? Maybe the world would be better if everything just went dark.]

She was so absorbed in it that she did not notice me approaching.

At that moment, a memory surfaced.

Back in our junior year of college, when I had severe gastroenteritis–vomiting and barely able to stand–she stayed beside me like this all night, refusing to sleep.

Now, the sorrow she was watching over belonged to another man.

A heavy unease began to coil inside my chest.

…

Adrian's condition unfolded like a carefully scripted play.

Scene after scene, each one pushing the limits of what I could endure.

Clara's phone became an alarm that rang only for him. And every time it rang, it seemed to drain a little more strength from her.

Late one night, Adrian had a severe reaction to his medication and was struggling to breathe.

Clara took the call and spent nearly an hour soothing him in a quiet voice.

When she finally hung up, her face was pale.

A dull pain pulsed faintly in her lower abdomen.

I panicked and wanted to call an ambulance, but she forced a smile and insisted she only needed some rest. She refused to go to the hospital.

In the middle of the night, Adrian had another episode. He became paranoid, convinced someone was trying to harm him, and spiraled into panic.

Clara grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. I blocked her path.

"Didn't the doctor say you need complete rest? In your condition, you shouldn't be running around!"

She looked at me, her eyes full of conflict.

"Julian, he's a high-risk patient, I can't just watch him die. Just this once. I'll be back soon."

When she returned, she looked utterly exhausted. There were even faint reddish stains on her pants.

Weakly, she said she was just overworked and told me not to worry.

My doubt and unease were interpreted by her as a lack of empathy, as if I simply did not understand her profession.

"Julian, you used to be so kind. Why can't you try to understand now? This is my responsibility."

She looked at me, her eyes tired–tinged with a hint of disappointment.

Because I was kind, I was expected to keep watching her put herself–and our child–in danger for someone else.

Eventually, she suggested making it up to me by taking me to an art exhibition I was looking forward to for a long time.

However, the moment we arrived at the entrance, her phone rang again.

She glanced at the screen and hung up immediately. Yet her expression changed instantly, and her hand moved instinctively to cover her lower abdomen.

"Is it him again?" My heart sank as my eyes fixed on the hand protecting her stomach.

"Just a telemarketer," she said, avoiding my gaze.

The phone kept vibrating relentlessly, stubborn enough to make anyone uneasy.

In the end, she gave in and walked to a corner to answer it.

"Adrian! Calm down! Don't do anything stupid! Okay, wait there–I'm coming right now!"

When she returned, her face was filled with anxiety, sweat beading at her temples.

"Julian, we can't see the exhibition. He's standing on the rooftop edge. He said if I don't come, he'll jump."

I looked at her pale face, at the hand that instinctively shielded her stomach. My voice sounded cold, even to myself.

"So our plans, our child, they all come second to another one of his performances? Clara, look at the state you're in."

She grabbed her hair in frustration, her body trembling slightly.

"Just this once! I swear it's the last time! I'll resolve this completely! If he really dies, I'll spend the rest of my life haunted by it. Our baby won't be happy either!"

Then she turned and ran toward the parking lot. Her steps were unsteady, yet there wasn't the slightest hesitation in her back.

I stood alone on the lively street as people passed by around me.

Inside my chest, everything felt ice-cold.

That night, when she returned, things were worse.

The abdominal pain intensified, and the bleeding was clearly heavier.

We rushed to the hospital, where the doctor diagnosed her with a threatened miscarriage and ordered strict bed rest.

On the hospital bed, she clutched my hand, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry, Julian. I'm sorry, baby. I never thought it would turn out like this."

My heart felt as though it were being sliced apart, but all I could say was, "Let's focus on saving the baby first."

…

Clara's hospital was celebrating its anniversary.

She insisted that I accompany her.

"I want everyone to see how wonderful my husband is."

She gently stroked her slightly rounded belly, a fragile hope flickering across her face.

I saw the exhaustion in her eyes and the forced smile she tried to maintain. In the end, I nodded.

I chose a well-fitted suit and did my best to conceal the weariness that built up over the past few days.

The banquet was lively–glasses clinking, elegant guests mingling beneath the soft glow of lights.

Her colleagues came over to toast us, offering congratulations and blessings.

Clara responded with polite smiles. One hand rested gently on the back of my chair, while the other occasionally moved to protect her abdomen.

The fragile calm we were maintaining lasted only until Adrian appeared.

He was dressed in a glaring white suit, his pale, gaunt face making him look almost ghostlike. His gaze cut straight through the crowd and locked onto Clara.

Then, in full view of everyone, he rushed forward and grabbed her arm.

Tears streamed down his face. His voice was not loud, but every word rang out clearly, trembling with raw emotion.

"Dr. Miller! You once said I was the person who needed understanding more than anyone you'd ever met! Why are you abandoning me now? Is it because you have a family now, because you have a child, so I've become an unnecessary burden? Or is it because Mr. Vance can't tolerate my existence?"

The entire room fell silent.

All eyes turned toward me like spotlights, filled with shock, curiosity, and a quiet kind of pity.

Clara was completely stunned.

A moment later, instinct seemed to take over as she slipped into professional mode, her voice gentle and calming.

"Adrian, please don't do this. Calm down. This isn't the right place. Let's talk somewhere else."

I stood there as if stripped bare, every last piece of dignity crushed into the dust by the two of them.

In the end, it was the hospital administrators–faces dark with anger–who signaled the security guards to remove him.

He struggled as they dragged him away, twisting around to stare at Clara, his voice breaking as he shouted:

"Clara! Without you, I'll die! You promised you'd never give up on me!"

The drive home was suffocatingly silent.

Only the low hum of the engine and the roaring sound of blood pounding in my ears filled the car.

Clara's face was deathly pale. One hand clutched her stomach tightly. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Suddenly, she groaned and curled inward.

"Clara?" My heart lurched.

Cold sweat appeared on her forehead as she whispered shakily, "My stomach, it hurts."

I looked down.

On the hem of her light-colored dress, a small but glaring patch of bright red blood was spreading.

"Hospital. Now."

In the emergency department, the doctor's expression turned grave after examining her.

"She needs to be admitted immediately for pregnancy stabilization. The mother must not experience any more emotional stress."

Clara was wheeled into a hospital room and laid onto a stark white bed, her face drained of all color.

Standing beside the bed, watching her closed eyes and the way her hand instinctively guarded her lower abdomen, a cold emptiness spread through my chest.

What exactly was I–and this family–to her?

…

On the third day of her hospitalization, Clara's condition finally stabilized a little.

She grew quiet, often staring blankly at the ceiling, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.

"Julian," she said hoarsely one afternoon, "when I'm discharged, let's leave this place. We'll move to another city, alright? I'll finish handing over all my work, and I'll never see him again."

I did not reply.

I heard promises like this too many times before.

That afternoon, my phone screen suddenly lit up.

A message from an unfamiliar number appeared.

"Mr. Vance, guess what? If I walk onto the rooftop right now, do you think your Dr. Miller would abandon your child just to come save me? How about we make it a bet?"

Attached was a photo.

A wrist wrapped in bandages. And in the background–clearly visible–the corner of the hospital rooftop.

It was Adrian.

A chill shot up from the soles of my feet.

This was a blatant provocation. A declaration of war.

Almost the moment I finished reading the message, the phone beside Clara's pillow began to ring.

She answered it.

After hearing only a few words, she suddenly sat upright, her voice rising in alarm.

"What? The rooftop?! I'll be right–"

She stopped mid-sentence.

"No, I can't, but-"