It was your first serious fight with Kayle in a year of marriage, voices sharp, wounds cutting deep. You couldn’t stand the weight of it, so you left the house, hoping the night air would calm your racing heart.

Your feet carried you to a place you hadn’t seen in years—a bar, dimly lit, full of strangers. That was where you met him. He smiled at you, offering warmth when you felt most alone. One drink bled into another, and then everything blurred.

The next thing you remembered was waking in an unfamiliar bed. A man beside you. Panic rushed through you as you pulled your clothes on and slipped away, leaving nothing behind but regret.

That night, when you returned home, Kayle was waiting. The moment you stepped inside, his arms closed around you, desperate, trembling.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking.

Tears burned your eyes. “No… I'm sorry, Kayle.”

And that night, you clung to each other, desperate and breathless, as if love alone could mend what had broken.

Weeks later, the nausea came. You took a test—two lines. Pregnant.

Kayle’s eyes lit up when you told him. He kissed your hands, your stomach, joy spilling from him like sunlight. You told yourself it was Kayle's, not that man.

Months passed. Your daughter was born. You named her Yuna. She was beautiful, radiant, laughter spilling from her like music. Kayle adored her.

Three years later, the illusion crumbled.

Yuna’s fever was dangerously high. At the hospital, the doctor stepped into the room, clipboard in hand, voice serious.

“Yuna needs a blood transfusion. Her blood type is O.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s impossible,” Kayle said, stiff. “I’m AB.”

The doctor’s eyes shifted to you. “And you, ma’am?”

You swallowed hard. “A.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. The doctor excused himself quietly, leaving you and Kayle alone.

Slowly, Kayle’s gaze moved from Yuna—fragile, pale—to you. His eyes hardened. “What does that mean?” His voice was low, trembling. “Why is Yuna O?”

You couldn’t answer.

“Say something.”

“Kayle, please—”

“Don’t ‘please’ me!” His voice cracked, breaking under the weight of betrayal. “Be honest. Yuna… is she even mine?”

Your voice shook. “Y-Yuna… she’s not…”

A sharp sound escaped his lips, half laugh, half gasp. He turned and stormed out of the room, leaving you broken in your tears.

Later, after Yuna’s transfusion, once the doctor assured you she was stable, you stepped out to handle the paperwork. Your hands trembled as you signed the forms, vision blurred.

And then—you froze.

From a nearby room, voices slipped through the door. One voice you knew all too well. “Kayle, can you stay here for a while? He asked for you.”

Your blood turned cold. Lina. Your closest friend.

And then Kayle’s voice, heavy with defeat. “I know. I just… I’m overwhelmed right now. Yuna… turns out she isn’t mine.”

The floor seemed to give way beneath you.

You pushed the door open slowly. Inside, Lina stood by a hospital bed. A small boy lay clutching Kayle's hand, his gaze flickering between Lina and Kayle.

"Mom, Dad." The little boy tugged Kayle's hand to his cheeks.

Both of them turned when they saw you.