Truth Behind False Love

"I've prepared the contraceptives as you instructed. Should I continue giving them to your wife?" the family doctor asked.

Zach's voice was cold and detached. "Yes. Don't stop. Marrying her was nothing more than a convenient arrangement. In my heart, only Kayla is worthy of being the mother of my child."

There was a hint of tenderness in his expression, shadowed by regret. "Victoria's mother passed away. I gave up my marriage to protect Kayla. Even if it means I'll never become a father, I'm willing to accept that. In my heart, no one can replace Kayla—not even a child born to me and Victoria."

The doctor hesitated. "But long-term use of this kind of contraceptive can harm a woman's body. Even if she stops taking it, conceiving might become impossible."

For a moment, a trace of conflict flickered through Zach's eyes—brief and fleeting—before resolve hardened his expression.

"It doesn't matter. I'll take care of her for the rest of her life."

I stood outside the study door, my entire body numb. It felt as if I were barefoot in the snow, the chill seeping through my skin and settling deep in my bones.

He didn't notice me.

Somehow, I dragged myself back to the bedroom, but once inside, my strength failed. I collapsed onto the floor, as if the weight of everything had finally crushed me.

For three years, I had no children. I always thought the problem lay with me—my health had been fragile since childhood. I tried everything, including folk remedies, some so nauseating they made me want to vomit. But nothing worked.

I felt guilty. Yet, Zach always reassured me, saying it didn't matter if we had no children—having me was enough.

To keep me from suspecting anything, he never used protection. Every time, he let me believe the fault was mine.

In his eyes, my health and my ability to bear children were never as important as Kayla's happiness.

"Victoria, why are you sitting on the floor?"

I looked up to see him entering the bedroom, his face filled with concern as he hurried to lift me into his arms.

"It's nothing," I said, forcing a faint smile. "I just felt a little dizzy."

It wasn't a lie. Over the past year, dizziness had become a frequent visitor.

He gently massaged my temples. "I wish I could take the discomfort away from you. Seeing you like this makes my heart ache."

"You need to take better care of yourself," he added, his voice soft. "Here, drink some warm milk. It'll make you feel better."

The sight of the milk brought a sharp, stabbing pain to my heart.

Every time we were intimate, he would bring me a glass of warm milk afterward. I once thought it was a sign of his love, his way of caring for me.

Now, I realized it was nothing more than the disguise of an executioner.

"I feel a little nauseous. I don't want any," I said.

He pinched my nose playfully, but there was an edge to his tone that left no room for refusal.

"Be good now, Victoria. Milk helps with calcium and sleep. Just drink it. You'll feel better when you wake up."

His insistence was gentle but unyielding. He pressed the glass against my lips, leaving me no choice but to take it.

'Zach, do you truly have the heart to rob me of the right to be a mother? Can you really watch me struggle—swallowing every bitter remedy, hoping against hope—without feeling even a shred of pity?'

Swallowing my despair, I closed my eyes and drank the milk in one long gulp.

Sleep came slowly. But just as I drifted off, a wave of nausea surged through me. I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited until the world spun around me.