Chapter 5

Elana Clements POV:

The dizziness was a constant, unwelcome guest. Nausea became my default state, a churning abyss in my stomach that left me weak and trembling. I spent hours hunched over the toilet, dry-heaving until my throat was raw. Online searches confirmed my fears: hyperemesis gravidarum, severe morning sickness. It was just another layer of misery piled onto my already fragile existence.

My new apartment, rented in a hasty attempt at independence, felt hollow and vast. I would often collapse on the small sofa, the world spinning, praying I wouldn't faint entirely. No one would know if I did. No one would care.

I swallowed another anti-nausea pill, hoping for a moment of reprieve, and sank back onto the cushions. The quiet was almost suffocating.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Franco. He stood framed in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his hair perfectly in place. He looked ready for a boardroom, not my small, messy living room.

He didn't say a word. He just strode over to me, his eyes blazing, and threw a stack of glossy photographs onto the coffee table. They scattered like fallen leaves.

My eye caught a familiar hospital corridor, a potted palm. My figure, small and hunched, talking to Casey. Another photo showed Casey holding my hand. "What were you doing at the hospital, Elana?" His voice was low, dangerous, barely a whisper. But the menace was unmistakable.

Before I could answer, he lunged, grabbing the collar of my worn t-shirt. His grip tightened, cutting off my breath. My head swam, my vision blurring. I gasped, struggling for air, my hands clawing at his.

"Answer me!" he roared, his face inches from mine. "What were you doing there with him?"

I coughed, a desperate, rattling sound, my throat burning. "I... can't... breathe."

He stared at me for a long moment, then released me with a violent shove. I stumbled back, clutching my throat, my lungs burning. I reached for the glass of water on the table, my hand shaking so hard the water sloshed over the rim.

As I gulped it down, Franco's eyes darted to the blanket I had hastily pulled over myself. He ripped it away. Beneath it, tucked carelessly, was the B-ultrasound report. His eyes, already dark, turned black.

He picked it up, his gaze sweeping over the dates, the small, blurry image. His face was a thundercloud. "What is this?" he asked, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion. "Who's is this?"

My legs felt like jelly. I pressed my back against the cold wall, trying to appear stronger than I felt. My reflection in the small mirror beside me showed a gaunt, terrified woman. My baby, I thought, should be celebrated, cherished. Not suspected.

"It's yours, Franco," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "It's our baby."

He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. He tossed the photographs and the ultrasound report onto the floor, scattering them around us like trash. "Mine? Don't insult me, Elana. We haven't been 'together' since... that night. And even then, it was a mistake. A drunken lapse in judgment." His lip curled in disgust. "Don't think I don't know who he is. Your little trainer friend. Always hovering, always touching. You think I'm blind?"

He stalked towards me, his shadow looming. "This bastard child," he spat, his words like acid, "is not mine. My family would never accept this. Our name would be ruined."

His words pierced me, each one a fresh wound. I felt a surge of unexpected fury. All the humiliation, all the neglect, all the pain coalesced into a single, explosive force. My hand shot out, unthinking, and connected with his cheek with a sharp, resounding crack.

His head snapped back. He stared at me, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. No one had ever dared touch him like that.

"It is yours," I repeated, my voice shaking with rage. "That night. You came back. You remember." My voice dropped to a whisper, laced with venom. "And what about you, Franco? Coming out of the psychiatric ward with Katina? Are you going to tell me her baby is yours too?"

His face hardened. "You want to play that game? Fine. We're done, Elana. I want a divorce."

My heart, already broken, felt a strange lightness. "Good," I said, the word a small, defiant roar. "I want one too. Let's end this farce. You can go be with your true love, and I'll be free."

He scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. "Free? Don't be naive, Elana. You think you can just walk away from a Mayer? Don't think about playing martyr. You have no leverage. You have nothing." He picked up the ultrasound report from the floor, his eyes cold and unwavering. "And this... this isn't going anywhere. I'll make sure of it."

He turned and walked out, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed through the quiet apartment. He didn' t look back.