I stayed there, curled against the floor, letting the grief settle into my bones until even breathing felt like something I had to fight for.
Time blurred.
Not in hours. Not in minutes.
Just... in weight.
Dragging.
My hands trembled as I wiped my face with the sleeve of my oversized shirt.
The fabric was damp now, clinging slightly to my skin, but I didn’t care.
I pushed myself up slowly, using the door for support until I was standing.
Barely.
Each movement felt deliberate, like my body had to be convinced to keep going.
I walked to the bed.
Paused.
Then climbed onto it, the mattress dipping slightly beneath my weight.
I turned onto my side and pulled the pillow into my chest, wrapping my arms around it tightly—as if it could hold me together in a way nothing else could.
A fragile substitute for something I didn’t have.
Something I needed.
Something that had just been questioned.
Tomorrow.
The word settled in my mind like a promise.
Or a challenge.
He’d do the test.
Fine.
Let him.
Let him bring in whatever doctors, whatever machines, whatever cold, clinical process he needed to confirm the truth.
Let him see the result with his own eyes.
Let him read it in numbers and charts and biological proof that the child was his.
Let him face the reality that couldn’t be argued with.
Let him realize—
That Violet had lied.
Again.
