The Look On Her Face

Calliope stared at her reflection, palms pressed to the cool glass of her bathroom mirror. Her heart pounded beneath the black silk blouse she’d chosen, one that draped gently over her still-flat stomach but made her feel beautiful, worthy. She hadn’t said the words aloud yet, not to anyone but herself, but tonight she would. She was going to tell him.

Tell Atlas she was pregnant. Tell him she loved him.

She dabbed on a final layer of lipstick, trying to slow her racing thoughts. This wasn’t just a conversation. This was a risk—a leap. But for the first time in weeks, she felt brave enough to take it.

“You’re doing this for them,” she whispered, placing a trembling hand over her abdomen. “And for you.”

She stepped out into the cool night, heart full of nerves and hope.

The elevator doors to Atlas’s penthouse glided open with a soft chime. She stepped inside, hands clenched tightly around her purse. She knew the passcode now, had been here before more times than she could count. But tonight felt different. Final. Like everything would change the moment she said it.

The soft echo of voices reached her before she reached the front hallway.

Laughter.

A woman’s laughter.

She froze.

And then she saw them—silhouetted in the soft glow of the living room’s dim lights.

Atlas stood by the window, the city skyline behind him like a painting. And in front of him… her.

The ex.

Calliope didn’t remember her name. Didn’t need to. The woman’s perfectly styled curls and flawless smile were enough of a reminder. Her arms were around Atlas’s neck, laughing, whispering something.

Calliope’s legs felt like stone. She should have turned back.

But she couldn’t.

She watched helplessly, as the woman leaned in, and Atlas didn’t move away.

Their lips met.

Calliope’s heart cracked.

It didn’t matter if it lasted a second or an hour—she’d seen enough. She’d heard enough. She felt everything.

The purse dropped from her hand. She didn’t hear it hit the floor.

She was running.

The elevator couldn’t come fast enough. Her vision blurred as hot tears stung her cheeks, smearing the makeup she’d so carefully applied. She bolted through the lobby, ignoring the concerned glance of the doorman, and shoved open the door to the street.

The air was cold. Or maybe she was.

Her heels echoed across the sidewalk as she ran through the city, not caring where she went—only needing to get away.

Calliope didn’t remember much of the walk back home. Her heels clicked mechanically along the pavement, her mind lost in static. The burn in her chest wasn’t just heartbreak—it was betrayal wrapped in disbelief, laced with a panic she couldn’t name.

She reached her apartment, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, chest heaving. The silence felt loud. The ring of the earlier kiss—his lips on someone else—replayed in her skull like a cruel loop. And not just anyone. Her. The one woman who knew him first.

Atlas’s ex had looked so comfortable in his arms. Like she belonged there.

Calliope slid down to the floor, her dress pooling around her legs, the little envelope containing the ultrasound photo still in her coat pocket. She didn’t even have the strength to take it out.

“I was going to tell you,” she whispered to the empty apartment. “I was going to tell you everything.”

A sob clawed its way out of her throat, and then another. And once they started, they didn’t stop. Her hand moved instinctively to her belly, where two tiny heartbeats pulsed with life, oblivious to the wreckage inside their mother.

She had imagined this going differently. She had seen it in her head—how his face would soften, how his arms would pull her in, how he’d kiss her forehead and swear he’d never let anything happen to them.

But he already had.

He’d let her in. And for what? Closure? Weakness?

Calliope wiped her face with the back of her hand, breath catching as she sat upright, spine straightening with resolve. She didn’t need him. She couldn’t afford to.

Not now.

“I’ll do this on my own,” she said aloud, her voice rough but steady.

She’d protect them. These babies were hers. And whatever Atlas had been or could’ve been, it no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered now was making sure they never felt the kind of heartbreak she just did.

Not even once.