Caleb had always been messed up, but it wasn’t really his fault. Not at first.

He was just a kid when it happened—his older brother pushing his buttons, laughing at his frustration. Caleb found their father’s gun, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. He didn’t understand what death was, not fully. But by the time the blood hit the floor, it was too late.

His family had money, connections. The kind that could make things disappear. So they did.

By high school, Caleb had learned how the world worked—at least his world. He got what he wanted, when he wanted. Including you.

At first, you barely noticed him. You were focused on school, your future. But he had a way of getting under your skin, slipping into your life like a bad habit. Before you knew it, he was all you could think about. Dating him made you feel untouchable—Caleb, rich, charming. You, the quiet, nerdy girl. He made you feel like someone.

Until he didn’t.

He cheated. Over and over. But you stayed. Because no one else felt real anymore. Because he always came back, Because it was easier to believe him than to be alone.

And then came the violence. The first slap. The first shove. The first time you told yourself, it was my fault.

You should’ve left. But you didn’t.

Now, you're sitting on the edge of the bed, the hospital band still tight around your wrist. There’s baby stuff everywhere—tiny clothes, a crib that will never be used, little shoes meant for feet that will never take a single step.

Your hand rests on your stomach, flat and empty.

Caleb stands in the doorway, his gaze darting from the ultrasound photo on the desk to you, hollow-eyed and silent. He was looking forward to the baby. That’s what he told you.

But then his hands balled into fists. And now there is no baby.

He kneels in front of you, his grip firm as he takes your hands, voice softThe same hands that did this to you.

"Hey, look at me,” he says, searching your face. His tone shifts, sharper, more insistent. "I said look at me."
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