For a while, we lived in a perfect illusion. But undeserved success has a strange way of poisoning the ego.

Gradually, Ryan’s tone changed. He began to be embarrassed by me. At cocktail parties with his new “partners,” he would correct me publicly if I couldn’t remember an investor’s name. “You’re so cute when you’re trying to fit in,” he’d say with a condescending smile, treating me like a child who didn’t understand the adult world. The work nights grew longer. If I asked, he would sigh in frustration: “You’re paranoid, Elena. You’re lucky I put up with you.”

By our fourth year together, I was no longer his wife or partner; I was merely an ornament, a domestic nuisance.

When I found out I was pregnant in my fifth year, a spark of hope ignited within me. I thought a child would soften his heart, would bring us back to our days by the sea. But when I told him, his face was a wall of ice. “Now is not a good time,” he murmured, his eyes glued to his phone. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a child?”

The answer to that coldness came that very night by chance. Ryan was in the shower and his phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. The screen lit up. The contact was saved as “Tiffany,” and the message that appeared chilled me to the bone: “I miss you. When are you going to dump her?”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t smash the phone on the floor. I left it exactly where it was, walked to the dining room table, and sat down in the darkness. I placed one hand on my belly, protecting the life growing inside me, and with the other, I gripped the edge of the chair until my knuckles turned white. It had all been a lie.