Scars Of His Ruthless Contract Pregnancy

The apartment smelled of mildew and failure. Denice stood in the doorway, water pooling around her feet, and looked at the space she'd called home for three years. The stained carpet. The window that didn't close. The radiator that clanked and leaked and occasionally sprayed rust-colored water across the room. She walked to the dresser. Cheap particle board, peeling veneer. On top sat a frame-plastic, dollar store, the kind of thing that wouldn't survive a fall. She picked it up. Ansel at one year old. His first birthday, before the diagnosis, before the world narrowed to hospitals and fear. He was wearing a crown made of construction paper, his face smeared with chocolate, his eyes bright with joy that seemed impossible now. She traced his face with her thumb. The glass was cold. Wet, from her hand, from the rain still dripping from her hair. The elevator. Kira's smile. Ansel's voice-Mommy-not for her, never for her, for the woman who'd stolen him while Denice was drowning. The frame slipped. She caught it, fumbled, lost her grip. It hit the floor with a sound like a gunshot, and the glass shattered into a starburst pattern that obscured Ansel's face. She stared at it. At the cracks radiating from the center, at her son's smile fractured into a dozen pieces. She kicked it. Again. Again. The plastic frame cracked, splintered, broke apart under her foot. She kept kicking until her toes ached, until she'd reduced it to shards and dust, and then she fell to her knees among the wreckage and felt nothing. Nothing was dangerous. Nothing was necessary. Nothing was the only way through. She found her phone in her bag. She woke the screen, a jagged crack that had appeared at some unknown point during the earlier chaos slicing across the dark background like a lightning bolt, perfectly matching the fractured reality of her life. She opened iMessage. Found his name-Jasper Garrison Montgomery, gray silhouette, the default of a man who couldn't be bothered to personalize his profile. Her fingers moved. She didn't think about the words, didn't craft them, didn't consider dignity or pride or any of the things she'd spent a lifetime accumulating. She typed. Tonight. I'm ovulating. Come. She read it once. Twice. The words were obscene in their bluntness, their desperation, their complete abandonment of everything she'd once believed about herself. She pressed send. The screen changed. Delivered. Then, seconds later: Read. She waited. Stared at the screen, at the empty space where a response should appear. The typing bubble-that pulsing ellipsis that meant someone was composing a reply-didn't appear. One minute. Two. She set the phone on the dresser, screen up, and walked to the window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the city emerging gray and wet and indifferent. She counted cars. Counted streetlights. Counted the seconds until she could look again. Five minutes. Ten. She checked the phone. Still read. Still no reply. Fifteen minutes. She sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress springs protesting, and held the phone in both hands like a prayer. Thirty minutes. The screen went dark. She pressed the button, woke it, saw the same timestamp, the same silence. An hour. She understood, then. Understood what he was doing. The read receipt was a weapon, a way of saying I see you, I hear you, I choose to ignore you without speaking a single word. He was punishing her. Humiliating her. Reducing her to the thing he'd always believed she was-a body, a convenience, a woman who'd spread her legs for anyone who could pay. She laughed. The sound was wrong-high, hysterical, the sound of someone who'd lost the boundary between pain and amusement. She laughed until her chest hurt, until she couldn't breathe, until she was gasping and choking and still the laughter came, tearing through her like a physical thing. The phone slipped from her hand. She didn't retrieve it. She stood, unsteady, and walked toward the bathroom. The door was open. The shower was visible, the curtain pulled back, the tiles stained with rust. She stepped inside. Turned the water on. Hot, as hot as she could stand, steam rising immediately in the small space. She didn't undress. She stepped fully clothed into the spray, felt the water saturate her hospital gown, her underwear, her skin. It was burning, scalding, and she welcomed it. Welcomed anything that could feel like punishment, like purification, like an end. The steam rose. The room shrank. She leaned against the wall, felt the tiles cold against her back, and closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Just to rest.