"Childish squabbles…"
He had never known the icy sting of cold water over his head in the dead of winter, the searing burn of a cigarette pressed to his skin, or the desperation of swallowing sleeping pills just to escape the night.
What gave him the right to forgive on her behalf?
Elliot frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but Millie suddenly snatched the glass from his hand and downed it swiftly.
The wine spilled, dribbling down her delicate neck and she coughed violently, her eyes glossing over with unshed tears.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Elliot’s chest tightened painfully, a flicker of guilt gnawing at him.
Before he could react, Millie collapsed into his arms, her breathing shallow and skin flushed.
Someone nearby whispered, "Is she allergic to alcohol?"
The words snapped him back to reality. "Damn it," he muttered, grabbing her and rushing toward the garage.
What the hell was wrong with him? How could he have forgotten?
When Millie finally stirred again, an IV line was running into her arm.
Elliot sat at her side, watching her intently, his red-rimmed eyes betraying the emotions he tried to suppress.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"There was no need," she replied, turning her face away.
Elliot grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.
"You’re pregnant. I’m the father. And you think it’s unnecessary to tell me?"
Millie stayed silent, her expression unreadable, but Elliot suddenly buried his face in the crook of her neck. She couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying.
"I’m going to be a father," he murmured repeatedly, his voice trembling with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Warm tears fell against her shoulder, leaving her frozen in place.
Were they tears of joy—or something else entirely?
After three long years of marriage, she had never conceived. The doctors had told her she suffered from polycystic ovary syndrome, making it nearly impossible to get pregnant.
She had made peace with the idea of never having children, yet now, against all odds, a tiny spark of life had taken root.
Her hand instinctively rested on her flat belly, emotions churning like a storm within her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Hilary glaring at her through the small window of the hospital door, her expression dark and piercing.
Millie reclined against the pillows, her face a picture of calm, but her lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.
For the next few days, Elliot barely left her side, eagerly trying to win her over with his cooking.
His culinary skills were remarkable, surpassing even the finest restaurants she’d known.
But she could count the times she’d tasted his cooking on one hand.
Once, during her senior year of college, she had been drowning in the demands of her thesis, internships and tutoring jobs, often skipping meals entirely. One night, she woke doubled over in pain from a stomachache. That was the first time Elliot cooked for her—a simple plate of fried rice.
It had been the most satisfying meal of her life.
She had always wondered how someone raised in luxury, surrounded by chefs and maids, had learned to cook so well. Later, she found out.
Hilary was a notoriously picky eater. During her years abroad, Elliot took six months of cooking lessons just so he could fly out and prepare her favorite hometown dishes every month.
Since then, whenever Millie was too swamped to cook, she’d jokingly ask Elliot to cook for her again. But he always refused. If her persistence annoyed him, he would order takeout instead.
The reason?
Hilary’s jealousy. She had forbidden him from cooking for anyone else. Like so much else, his skills in the kitchen had been reserved exclusively for her.
Millie glanced at the table brimming with dishes made to suit her tastes, but the sight only deepened her unease. Taking a few bites out of obligation, she excused herself and walked to the bathroom.
Once inside, her stomach rebelled. She gripped the edge of the sink; her body wracked with spasms until the contents of her meal were forced up. A sharp pain clawed at her abdomen and an acrid metallic taste filled her mouth.
She leaned over the sink as crimson blood spilled past her lips, vivid against the white porcelain. Her hands trembled as she turned on the faucet, watching the water sweep away every trace of her struggle, leaving the sink pristine once more.
Outside, Elliot banged on the door with urgency. The sound echoed like a heartbeat, each knock filled with tension.
The door opened abruptly and before Millie could react, Elliot pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, his embrace both firm and desperate.
"Is that little brat giving you trouble again?"
"How do you know it’s a boy?"
"They say the more you want something, the less likely you will get it. You have to say the opposite.
“A boy is fine, too. Later, we can have a girl and the two of us can protect the two of you."
Hearing this, Millie’s lips curved faintly as she replied, each word deliberate, "Have you ever heard the saying, 'If you want it all, you’ll end up with nothing'?"
Elliot’s smile faltered for a fleeting moment, a strange unease tightening his chest. But he quickly regained his composure and wrapped her in a firm embrace. In a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured, "Then all I want is you."
Millie averted her gaze, her lips twisting into a faint, mocking smile.
The silence shattered with the sharp ring of a phone. Elliot’s eyes flickered to the screen and they stepped aside to answer it.
Through the quiet night, Hilary’s trembling voice rang clear.
"Brother Elliot, I think someone broke into my room! I’m hiding in the bathroom, too scared to come out. I can’t reach my manager and don’t know what to do…" Her sobs punctuated her words, each one tugging at the air between them.
"Stay hidden and don’t move. I’m coming over. Keep the line open."
Without glancing back, Elliot bolted out the door, leaving the room and Millie behind.
Millie chuckled softly under her breath, her expression unreadable, before heading to the bathroom.
By the time she emerged from her bath, the clock had struck 11 p.m. She climbed into bed and reached for her phone, which buzzed twice on the bedside table.
Unlocking it, an unnamed profile flashed on the screen, accompanied by a string of messages. [Don’t think you can use the baby to tie him down. Neither you nor your child will take Elliot from me.]
[You think he loves you? He’s only with you out of pity.]
Her thumb hovered over the short video attached and she tapped it. The dim screen flickered to life, releasing muffled sounds that made her stomach churn.
A delicate voice whimpered, "Elliot… Elliot… Brother Elliot… be gentle… Hale hurts…"
The man in the clip said nothing, only letting out a faint, weary sigh before the recording ended.
Another message followed instantly. [He always falls asleep so quickly afterward.]
Millie’s grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles whitening as she forced a sharp intake of breath, battling the wave of nausea clawing at her chest.
Saving the photo and video without a second thought, Millie lay back and drifted into a restless sleep.
By morning, she had made up her mind. She submitted her resignation without hesitation and walked out of the building, her decision firm and resolute. As she stepped outside, her phone buzzed with an incoming call. Hilary’s name flashed on the screen.
When she arrived, Hilary was already waiting, her smug demeanor evident. Millie took her seat across the table and wasted no time. "What do you want?"
"Just catching up with an old friend…"
Millie’s gaze hardened as she cut through the charade. "Don’t waste your time pretending with me. I’m not Elliot."
Hilary’s smile grew sharper, a glint of malice dancing in her eyes. She leaned forward, her words slow and deliberate. "Millie, relationships can’t be forced. You spent ten years chasing after Elliot and what did it get you? A marriage was as hollow as an empty shell. Was it worth it?"
"And do you even know the truth? Elliot wouldn't have looked your way if it weren’t for me. Back in the day, I told him about this girl in class who was ‘bullying’ me. He was so eager to devise schemes to get back at you."
"Remember when we pushed you down the stairs? He carried you to the infirmary and you cried your eyes out, saying no one had ever been so kind to you. We laughed ourselves sick when he came back and told us."
"Did you not see it? Every one of those moments where he played the hero—they were his ideas all along.”
"Watching you gaze at him like he was some sort of savior was hilarious. We couldn’t help but think—how could someone be so pathetically blind?"
Millie tightened her grip on the cup, her fingers trembling as she bit her lip, desperately trying to keep the tears from spilling.
So, this was the truth. Every time they pushed her down the stairs, falsely accused her of theft, or tormented her in the restroom—he had been there. Elliot had seen everything.
Every moment he "just happened to pass by," every instance he seemed to swoop in at the perfect time—it had never been a coincidence.
The one she had foolishly seen as her savior, her light in an otherwise pitch-black world, had never truly been on her side. From the beginning, he had been nothing more than a silent accomplice.
He even went out of his way to distract the teachers, ensuring no interruptions for their schemes.
A cruel sense of irony swept over her as she imagined how proud he must have felt. She watched her look up to him with awe, clinging to the illusion of his kindness, never letting go.
Memories she had once cherished now felt like daggers in her heart.
"Elliot, which university are you applying to? Wherever you go, I’ll follow."
"I don’t care what happens, as long as you let me stay by your side."
"You were the first person to teach me what love is. I think… you’ll be the only one I’ll ever love."
***
Hilary’s lips moved, but her words were drowned out by the loud buzz in Millie’s ears. The sound was so loud it felt like her head might burst at any moment.
“Shut up! Haley, just shut up!”
“Millie, when your mother became a mistress and shattered someone else’s marriage, did she ever think that karma would one day come for her daughter? I’m simply here to make sure you feel the pain my mother endured.”
Lowering her voice, Hilary added, her smile brimming with confidence, “But now that I’ve had my fun, it’s time for you to step aside.”
Millie let out a bitter laugh. “Does picking up trash bring you satisfaction?”
Hilary’s smirk faltered as frustration crept into her expression. “Still the same sharp tongue,” she sneered. “You could beg for mercy and save some humiliation, but no, you just have to cling to this holier-than-thou act. It’s disgusting.”
“You know, I enjoy watching you break down—crying, kneeling, admitting just how worthless you are…”
Pulling out her phone, Hilary flipped the screen to face Millie. A photo appeared, showing a girl curled up in a corner, clutching her bruised body. Her arms and legs bore vivid marks of violence, yet her face remained stoic, her gaze blank. Above the photo, the caption read: [Beating a dog while it’s down.]
“Look at her,” Hilary murmured, her voice dripping with mockery. “So pitiful, so deserving of everyone’s sympathy.”
A tidal wave of humiliation crashed over Millie, the memories she had buried now surging to the surface, suffocating her. Time hadn’t erased the past—it had merely tucked it away, waiting for moments like this to resurface.
Without warning, the sharp sound of a slap echoed through the quiet café, silencing the murmurs around them.
Hilary’s head snapped to the side, her cheek blossoming with a vivid red handprint. She slowly turned back to Millie, her hand covering the stinging mark. Malice flickered in her eyes but vanished instantly, replaced by a teary, wounded expression.
“Millie…”
“If you want to perform, I’ll gladly join in.”
She grabbed the glass of juice from the table and poured it over Hilary’s head. The yellow liquid trickled down her hair, staining her clothes and bag, bits of pulp clinging to her like an unwelcome reminder of the moment.
Hilary froze, a fleeting smile flashing across her lips before her eyes reddened. Her expression shifted to one of fragile innocence.
Around the café, curious eyes turned toward them. Someone whispered Hilary’s name and another discreetly started recording on their phone.
“Haley,” Millie said, her voice steady, “if you think you’re worthy, fight for him. Win and I’ll gladly step aside. That way, you won’t carry the burden of being a homewrecker.”
Hilary stared back at her, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Alright.”
By evening, photos from the café flooded social media. Hilary’s vague yet suggestive post painted Millie as the villain, the narrative turning her into the bully who had once tormented Hilary.
