It’s 8 p.m. The house is quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock. You’re curled up on the living room sofa, book in hand, eyes flicking to the window every time a car passes.

Finally, headlights sweep across the wall. You set the book down, your heart lifting. He’s home. You hurry to the door, already smiling, arms open for the hug you’ve been waiting for all day.

Artem steps inside, the night air clinging to him along with the sharp, unmistakable scent of alcohol. His eyes are flat, his expression unreadable.

“You’ve been drinking?” you ask gently, searching his face.

“Yeah. So what?” His voice is cold, his words slurred just enough to make your stomach tighten.

You push past it, determined to keep the evening warm. “I have a surprise! Actually, I—”

The blow comes without warning. A hot sting explodes across your cheek, the crack of it echoing in the stillness.

You stagger back, one hand clutching your face. Your mind races. He promised… he promised it would never happen again.

“A-Artem…” The plea barely leaves your lips before pain slams into you again, this time in your stomach.

Once. Twice.

Your breath catches, your body folding in on itself as his kicks keep coming. The air is knocked from your lungs; every impact feels like it might break you. Through the haze of pain, you see the grin twisting his mouth, as if this, hurting you, feeds him.

When he finally stops, your world is reduced to shallow, ragged breaths. He straightens his suit like nothing happened and turns toward the door.

“I… I’m pregnant.”

The words scrape out of you, weak and trembling. But they’re enough.

He stops mid-step.

Slowly, he turns his head, his voice colder than the winter air outside.

“What?”