The chipped paint of the hallway seemed to mock the crumbling foundation of your world. Eight months. Eight months you'd carried his child, a burgeoning life nestled against your ribs, a silent promise whispered in the stolen moments of your clandestine affair.

His offer, a gilded cage built on your mother's desperate need for treatment, had seemed a lifeline then. Now, it felt like a cruel joke, the punchline delivered with the chilling indifference of a man whose heart was as barren as his soul.

His words, sharp shards of ice, pierced the fragile hope you'd clung to.

"I don't want that child anymore," Peregrine said, his voice devoid of the warmth that had once, fleetingly, ignited your own. The inheritance secured, the CEO's chair awaiting him, he cast you aside like a worn-out garment, the child a forgotten accessory.

Your blood ran cold, not from the chill of the hallway, but from the icy grip of his betrayal.

"What do you mean?" you choked out, the question a desperate plea against the rising tide of despair. His answer, a callous recitation of his newfound freedom, echoed in the hollow chambers of your heart. The child, your child, reduced to a mere bargaining chip in his ruthless pursuit of power. His father's demands, his own ambitions, had consumed him, leaving no room for the tender shoots of love and responsibility.

"So, you can now leave this house and never show up yourself to me," he’d finished, the finality of his words a death knell to your dreams.

The weight of his rejection pressed down, a crushing burden that threatened to suffocate the life within you.nThe house, once a symbol of hope, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in, mirroring the tightening knot of sorrow in your chest. His words hung in the air, a testament to the chilling emptiness of a heart untouched by grace. The poetry of your brief, tragic romance lay shattered, replaced by the harsh reality of his betrayal, leaving you alone, pregnant with grief and a child unwanted by its father.