Our breakup was a train wreck. The year he loved me most, I took half a million dollars from his mother, ended our pregnancy, and betrayed him. He knelt outside the clinic door, crying, begging me not to be so cruel. He said he would hate me for the rest of his life. Six years later, we met again. He had a beautiful, high-society girlfriend, and they were about to get married. And I, at the lowest point in my life, had to find him and ask for money. He forced me to come to his wedding, to watch with my own eyes as he took another woman home. He asked me, Do you regret it? He still doesn’t know that I raised our child alone. And that child is sick. So sick, he’s dying. 1. Six years after we broke up, I ran into Zane Wheaton when my life was in absolute shambles. It was a college reunion. No one expected Zane to show up. Someone joked, "Mr. Wheaton never keeps in touch with us common folk. What brings you out of the woodwork this year?" "Did you hear Christine was coming? Still carrying a torch for her, are you?" I was tucked away in a corner, but my back went rigid. I looked up and saw Zane, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes fixed on me with cold indifference. Everyone knew how much he used to love me. He was the heir to a fortune, the golden boy of a powerful family, but he’d fallen for me at first sight. That year, for me, he cut ties with his family. He gave up the power, the money, everything, just to be with me. We lived in a cramped little apartment, sharing a single bowl of ramen, a single bowl of soup. Life was hard, but we were deliriously happy. Every night, our fingers laced together, we’d swear we would be together forever. Until I got pregnant. His mother offered me half a million dollars to get rid of our baby and disappear from his life. That day, Zane knelt outside the clinic, pounding his fists against the door. Over and over, his voice cracked as he begged me, "My sweet Christine, please! I'll work harder, I'll make so much money, I'll earn millions, and it'll all be yours, okay?" "I'm begging you, don't leave me. Don't leave our baby..." I lay on the surgical table, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, willing myself not to cry out. Through that thin door, I heard Zane say he would hate me for the rest of his life. 2. No one knew just how ugly our breakup had been. Someone nudged me towards Zane, laughing. "You used to be so crazy about Christine you would've died for her, Zane. How could you ever let her go?" The whole room started buzzing, egging us on, telling us to get back together. One of Zane's buddies shot me a contemptuous look and sneered, "Zane can have any woman he wants. Who the hell is Christine to think he’d still be hung up on her?" He went on to say that another woman had been with Zane for three years. A woman who was gentler, prettier, and a much better fit for him than I ever was. They’d been together for three years. All his friends already called her "the missus." And word was, they were about to get married. The laughter died down. Only Zane's friend was still smiling as he invited everyone to the wedding. He tossed an invitation in my direction. It slapped against my cheek before falling into my lap. I looked down. Zane’s name was embossed in elegant script. Next to it, another woman’s. Victoria. It was a name that sounded as graceful as she probably was. I imagined she was more sensible than me, kinder, better at taking care of him. She wouldn't make him miserable like I did. Six years. It was good to know he was doing well. That was enough. I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes, looked up at Zane, and managed a single word: "Congratulations." He stared at me, his gaze drilling into mine. At my congratulations, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray and said coolly, "Christine, don't come to the wedding." "It would upset my fiancée. And when she’s upset, I get upset." My fingers tightened around the thin, crimson invitation. I froze for a second. Then I forced a smile and nodded. "Okay," I whispered. 3. That night, everyone concluded that Zane was truly, finally over me. No one could have guessed that a love as deep as ours could end like this. He was getting married, and the bride wasn't me. Everyone had assumed he would wait for me forever. Now, they were all buzzing with curiosity about this Victoria, this woman who had so completely captivated him. I knew Zane didn't want to see me, so I slipped out of the reunion early. On the way home, a friend texted me a photo of Victoria. She was beautiful, with an innocent-looking face. My friend said she was known for her sweet smile and playful nature—exactly Zane’s type. My friend typed: Christine, don't you think she kind of looks like you when she smiles? Do you think maybe he still loves you? Is it really over between you two? I let out a slow breath, staring at the screen for a long time before typing back with a forced smile in my words: It doesn't matter. I don't care anymore. I didn't want any more drama with Zane. And I knew he would never find out my secret. That I had lied to everyone and secretly given birth to our son. A son who was sick. So sick, he was dying. 4. This was the hardest year of my life, the year I had nothing left. I worked myself to the bone, desperate to earn enough money for the best medicine, to ease my son’s pain even a little. For money, I would swallow my pride and go to a college reunion to hit up old classmates. For money, I would work at an exclusive lounge, drinking with clients until my stomach bled. I thought that night at the reunion would be the last time I’d ever see Zane. But a few days later, Victoria found me. She must have heard the rumors—that she looked like me—and wanted to see for herself. She came to the lounge with a few friends and specifically requested me. One of them looked me up and down. "So, you're Christine? Zane's famous first love?" Her eyes were filled with disdain as she scanned my heavy makeup and tight dress, her expression screaming one word: Trashy. I clenched my fists, forcing my temper down. I just wanted to do my job. "Are you ordering drinks?" I asked. "If not, please don't waste my time. I need to make money." The girl seemed offended. "What kind of attitude is that? Are you deaf? Don't get cocky." She pointed to a bottle of hard liquor on the table. "You like money so much, right, Christine? Fine. Drink this entire bottle, right now, and I'll give you twenty thousand dollars." A whole bottle like that would land me in the hospital. Victoria feigned concern, gently chiding her friend. "We agreed we were just coming to say hello, not to make things difficult for her." She turned to me, her voice soft and laced with pity. "Everyone warned me about you, you know. They said you're good at wrapping men around your finger. Even Zane said I'm too naive and that you might try to hurt me." "But I'm not worried." I listened quietly, understanding her game. She was here to rub it in my face how much Zane adored her, and how much he despised me. I offered a small, humorless smile and looked at her friend. "We have a deal? I drink the bottle, you give me twenty thousand dollars. Right?" Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed the bottle and started chugging. Everyone stared, stunned. They hadn't expected me to be so desperate, to trade my health for cash. Victoria grabbed my arm. "Christine, please," she pleaded softly. "How can you degrade yourself like this for money? We women have to have some self-respect. I didn't want to say this, but... Zane hates it when women act like this." I finished the bottle, slammed it down on the table, and ignored the fire tearing through my stomach. "The money?" I cut her off. "What Zane Wheaton likes or hates has nothing to do with me. I just want the twenty grand you promised." Victoria's brow furrowed in disappointment. "Honestly, Christine," she said, her voice dripping with faux sincerity, "twenty thousand dollars is nothing to me. I could give it to anyone. But I can't give it to you. You can hate me for it, but I'm doing this for your own good. I can't stand by and watch you fall any deeper..." Her friend shoved me lightly. "I was just messing with you," she smirked. "I'm not giving you a dime. What are you gonna do about it?" A cold smile spread across my face. Then, in one swift motion, I shattered the bottle against the edge of the table. Shards flew. A piece sliced across Victoria's leg, drawing a line of red. Another dug deep into my own palm. Tears instantly welled in Victoria's eyes. The loud, boisterous group fell silent. The next second, the door to the private room swung open. Zane stood there, his face a mask of cold fury. I froze, unable to meet his gaze. He saw me. In my cheap dress and smeared makeup, looking like the kind of woman who drinks and flirts with men for money. I wasn't ashamed of what others thought of me, but I had never, ever wanted him to see me like this. I wanted him to think I was doing just fine. But even that small wish was denied. I summoned every ounce of strength I had, tilted my chin up, and pretended it didn't hurt. I watched as Zane rushed to Victoria's side, gathering her into his arms and gently wiping away her tears. Then he turned his icy gaze on me. "Christine," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Who exactly do you think you're bullying in front of me?" "You want money? Fine. Apologize first." I watched him shield Victoria, just like he used to shield me. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to grovel. Fine. For the money, I'd do anything. Victoria, nestled in his arms, shot me a triumphant little smirk. I looked at the cut on her leg, then at the bleeding gash in my own hand. I held it up, blood dripping onto the carpet. "Here," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Give me the twenty thousand." Zane’s eyes locked onto my bleeding hand, and for a split second, they flashed with a raw, familiar pain. Victoria saw his expression, and her smile faltered. She pulled a credit card from her purse and pressed it into my hand. "I'm giving you this, Christine," she said sweetly, "not because I owe you anything, but because I don't want to make a scene over a little money. Unlike some people." I was done with her righteous act. I snatched the card and turned to leave, but Zane's hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. He growled my name, his voice tight with a rage that felt like something else entirely. "Christine, doesn't that fucking hurt? Are you going to die without money?" His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched. He almost looked… worried. I ripped my arm from his grasp and turned back, a cold sneer on my face. "I've always been a woman who loves money, Zane. Did you forget?" "Manage your own life, and manage your woman. Stay the hell away from me." 5. Zane stared at me, his eyes so cold they could burn. My words must have dredged up the past—how he’d given up everything for me, only for me to throw him away for money. The pain in my stomach was becoming unbearable. I didn't want to argue anymore. I turned to leave, but suddenly the world tilted. Before I knew it, he’d thrown me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was like some kind of brute, a cigarette clenched between his teeth as he carried me out of the lounge. Heads turned, people stared. I struggled, kicking and screaming for him to put me down. He slapped my ass, hard. "Christine," he snarled, "I must've owed you my life in a past life for you to put me through this shit in this one!" He threw me into his car, leaning over me to pin my legs down. He grabbed my face, his voice a low, vicious growl. "Sometimes, I just want to kill you." He looked like he hated me with every fiber of his being, but his eyes… his eyes still held a flicker of the man who once loved me. The pain in my stomach was so intense I couldn't speak. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I glared at him. He scowled, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a pill for my stomach, forcing it into my mouth. As he did, I saw it. Tucked away in the corner of the compartment was a worn-out tube of my favorite lipstick, a broken hair tie, and the cheap pink barrette he’d once bought me at a street fair. All my things. All these years I’d been gone, they had stayed here, keeping him company in my place. A tear escaped and slid down my cheek. I turned my head away, wiping it quickly before he could see. After all this time, he still remembered I had a sensitive stomach. Even without me, he’d kept the medicine for me. And what did I do? I gathered my strength and shoved him away with all my might. I forced a smile. "Zane, can you just stop? Stop chasing me. It's pathetic." "You probably don't know this, but... I've been married. I have a kid." "Are you still hoping we'll get back together? Don't be a fucking idiot, Zane." He stumbled back, his body going rigid. As I moved to get out of the car, his hand shot out, slamming me back against the seat. His fingers closed around my throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to hold me there. His voice trembled with fury. "I don't believe you, Christine." "You better tell me you're fucking joking. Or I swear to God, I will kill you." I met his blazing eyes without flinching. "Fine," I said calmly. "I'll prove it to you." I took him to the Children's Hospital. It was nine at night, but the lights in the inpatient ward were still on. I stood outside a room, looking through the glass window. I pointed to a small boy sitting up in bed, quietly reading a book. "That's my son," I told him. His name is Leo. He is the most precious thing in my world. He looks so much like me, but his personality is all Zane—thoughtful, gentle, with a stubborn streak. He has the same determined set to his eyes. He inherited all of Zane's best qualities. He's such a good kid. But he's sick. Almost six years old, but so small and frail it breaks your heart. Zane stared at the boy for a long, long time. Then he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. He bowed his head, and I think I saw a tear fall. I had never seen him look so broken. The last thing he said to me that night was, "You've got guts, Christine." He didn't ask who the father was. He didn't recognize him. He didn't know he was looking at his own son.
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