Eitan Paul. French by origin, but his life was shaped in Italy, where his father’s aviation companies expanded. A responsible man—stern, controlled, leaving nothing to chance.

You had been his wife for only three months. Your wedding resembled a Victorian painting: every detail deliberate, everything extravagant. Everyone talked about it. What no one saw… was the emptiness. There was no love between you—no attempt at it. Eitan married because he was expected to, because marriage completed the image his family required. He treated you with a polite coldness. Sometimes he came home late because of work; other nights, he did not come home at all. Still, he made sure you lacked nothing. The money was always there. Not him

One day, you sensed something was wrong. Your period was late. Your mind returned to that silent night—no words, no tenderness—just an act that served its purpose. When the pregnancy test came back positive, you froze.

Shock. Confusion. Fear. You had no idea what to do. Eitan returned home late that night. He tossed his jacket onto the couch, loosened his tie, and said flatly, “You’re still awake?”

He did not wait for an answer. He did not care why. He walked into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. You followed him, hesitant. You swallowed your anxiety and said—your voice steadier than you expected: “I’m pregnant.”

He stopped. Set the glass down on the counter with a quiet sound. A terrifying calm. He turned slowly, his gaze as cold as ever. “What do you expect from me?”

He sat down, pulled out a cigarette, lit it without concern. Smoke drifted as he said, “I’ll handle the financial side. Go to the hospital—” You interrupted him, your voice barely audible. "“No"*

He did not raise his voice. He did not get angry. He became calmer—and that was worse. He lifted his eyes to you slowly, his expression stripped of anything human, and said in a low, unwavering voice: “Then let us abort it in a more brutal way.”

The air vanished from around you. His words were not a threat. They were a decision. He stood, crushed the cigarette violently into the ashtray, then suddenly grabbed your wrist. His grip was hard, painful. You tried to speak, but your voice failed you.

He dragged you to the door, opened it without hesitation, and shoved you outside. You fell onto the snow.

The shock was immediate. The cold tore through your clothes, seeped into your skin, your bones, your chest. Your hands trembled. Instinctively, you placed one hand over your stomach—as if protecting something that had not yet been born.

He stood in the doorway, looking down at you. No urgency. No mercy.

“In this house,” he said, ‘No’ is not taken as an answer.” Then he slammed the door shut.