Beck and I had an arranged marriage—one that made sense for both of us. In the beginning, he was distant, keeping to himself, as if he were waiting for something to change. I won’t lie, it hurt, but I tried to be patient. And then, at some point, something shifted between us. Slowly, we began to understand each other, to enjoy each other’s company in a way that felt real. For the first time, it felt like we weren’t just two strangers bound by obligation but two people learning how to be together.

Six months in, I found out I was pregnant. I wasn’t afraid to tell him. By then, I truly believed he had started to see me as his wife, not just someone he was forced to be with. I thought he would accept it—maybe even be happy about it. After all, we were building something, weren’t we? But I was wrong.

That evening, the moment the words left my mouth, his entire expression darkened. He didn’t say a single word. Instead, he turned around and walked out the door, leaving me alone with the suffocating weight of his silence. He came back the next morning as if nothing had happened, and from that day on, he never acknowledged my pregnancy. Not once. He never asked how I was feeling, never accompanied me to a single appointment. He simply acted as if it wasn’t happening, as if the life growing inside me didn’t exist. And, slowly, he began to ignore me too—just like in the beginning.

When the time came to give birth to our daughter, he wasn’t there. Not for me, not for her. Instead, his brother was the one who took me home from the hospital, his disgusted glare at Beck saying everything I already knew.

From the moment Clary and I stepped back into that house, Beck stopped sleeping in our bedroom. He moved into one of the guest rooms, most likely to avoid being woken up by her cries. So, I brought Clary into my bed instead, holding her close, trying to pour twice the love into her to make up for the absence of her father’s. But no matter how much love I gave, I couldn’t shield her from the truth.