Chris Evans’ name lit up your phone screen, his message short but heavy:

Chris: [Charlotte, the procedure’s been scheduled.]

You stared at the words for a long time, the glow of the phone blurring through your tears. The weight of that one sentence pressed on your chest until it felt hard to breathe. A “procedure.” That was what it had come to.

Your trembling hand fell to your stomach, where the faintest flutter of movement rippled beneath your palm — your baby. The baby you had felt kick for the first time just last week. The baby you had sung to, talked to, and loved even before they existed on paper. The baby who, despite everything, still called you home.

They weren’t yours by blood. Not in the way that mattered to Edward and Olivia. But what about everything else? What about the nights you spent sick and dizzy, clutching your belly and whispering, please be okay? What about every injection, every bruise, every tear shed in sterile clinics under harsh fluorescent lights?

This child wasn’t a science project. They were yours.

And yet, Edward had stolen even that from you.

You thought about what he’d said to Olivia — “She pushes it out, and I stay red-carpet ready.” The words still rang in your ears like poison. They had planned this — plotted your body, your life, your future like you were nothing but a vessel.

You pressed a hand to your lips to stifle the sob clawing its way out. If you went through with the abortion, that would be their victory. It would mean letting Edward win, letting Olivia keep everything — her fame, her body, her perfect life — while you were left with nothing.

You felt torn apart — grief clawing at one side, fury at the other.

Your phone buzzed again.

Chris: [Charlotte? Are you there? We can do this quietly. I’ll cover everything. You won’t have to face them again.]

Chris Evans — the man who once held your heart before Edward ever walked into your life. The one who used to read you poetry at 2 a.m., who made you laugh until your sides hurt. You’d broken things off years ago when your careers took different paths. He’d never stopped checking in, never stopped being kind — and when you called him tonight, voice shaking and broken, he didn’t hesitate for a second.

But now, as you reread his messages, your resolve started to fracture.

You could picture him pacing his penthouse, hair messy from running his hands through it, worry creasing his forehead. You knew he meant well — Chris always meant well — but he didn’t understand what this meant to you.

You weren’t just carrying a baby. You were carrying years of pain, hope, and sacrifice. You were carrying the one dream you’d built your life around.

The thought of ending that — of ending them — was unbearable.

A shaky breath escaped you as you typed back:

You: “Chris, I… I don’t know if I can go through with it. I feel them kicking. I feel… everything.”

It took less than a minute for his reply to pop up.

Chris: “Charlotte, you don’t owe that man or that woman anything. They used you. You deserve to be free from this nightmare. Let me help you start over.”

Start over. The words sounded so simple. But how did you start over when the person you were starting over from was inside you?

You sank down onto the bed, tears blurring your vision, your hand still resting protectively over your stomach. “It’s not your fault,” you whispered to the child growing within you. “None of this is your fault.”

You thought of the ultrasound picture tucked away in your nightstand — the tiny bean-shaped blur that had made you cry with joy. You remembered Edward holding your hand then, smiling down at you like you were his entire world. How easy it was for him to lie.

A soft knock startled you. You quickly wiped your tears and looked toward the door.

“Charlotte?” Edward’s voice, smooth as ever, drifted through the crack. “You’re still awake? You need to rest, honey.”

Honey. You almost laughed. A brittle, humorless sound.

“I’m fine,” you called back, your voice hoarse. “Just thinking.”

He hesitated on the other side. “About what?”