Harder.
The second blow landed with brutal precision.
A wave of nausea surged through me. My vision flashed white for a second — ears ringing — as if something inside had shifted violently under the pressure.
“Dad...” I sobbed, choking on the word. “Please...”
He ignored me.
He raised his heel again.
“Stop calling me by that name, you bitch.”
The third stomp crushed down with deliberate cruelty.
Pain exploded through my abdomen — deeper this time — and I screamed.
The sound tore through my throat raw and broken.
Something felt wrong.
Not just pain.
Not just bruising.
But tearing.
As if invisible threads inside me had snapped.
Harris stepped forward slowly, crouching beside me with clinical detachment.
He grabbed the hem of my sundress and lifted it without hesitation — exposing my stomach to the cold air.
It was barely rounded.
Softer than usual.
Different.
“Vasquez,” Harris said calmly, eyes scanning my body, “are you certain she’s pregnant again?”
My father’s gaze dropped to my abdomen.
He studied it like a diagnosis.
“I’m a trained physician,” he replied flatly. “I recognize the physiological changes. The subtle bloating. The increased sensitivity. The way she’s protecting her middle unconsciously.”
Pregnant?
The word shattered through my mind.
No.
No — that couldn’t be true.
My heart pounded violently.
I hadn’t known.
