Walking Away While Pregnant: Dear Ex-Husband, I Don't Love You Anymore novel Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

On a summer night, in the dim master bedroom, the large bed lay deeply indented.

Moonlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, rising and falling with the breeze. Breath tangled with breath; shadows swayed together in the dark.

The man had been drinking. He was far from gentle—there was even a trace of punishment in the way he moved.

Elise kept her eyes closed, enduring him the best she could.

"Elise... open your eyes and look at me."

Her chin was suddenly seized, pain flaring as his low, husky voice—tinged with restrained anger—fell from above her.

Slowly, Elise opened her eyes.

A sliver of moonlight fell perfectly across the man’s sharply sculpted profile.

For a moment, she felt dazed.

A month ago, they had parted on bitter terms at the cemetery.

That day had marked the anniversary of their twins’ death. Yet he had only coldly thrown out a single sentence—"I’m busy. I don’t have time to indulge your hysteria." Then he left... and for an entire month, he hadn’t come home.

A sudden pain at her collarbone snapped Elise back to the present. She met his dark, unreadable gaze.

"Focus." His voice was hoarse, the anger in it sharpening.

Her lashes trembled faintly, and her nose stung as tears threatened.

"Dylan..." she whispered. Raising her hand, her cold fingertips brushed over the slight crease between his brows. Her voice broke. "Let’s have another child."

He stilled. Desire still lingered in his pitch-black eyes as he stared at her intently.

"Elise... are you serious?"

She didn’t answer. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head up to kiss him.

His eyes narrowed. Long fingers slid into her hair, gripping the back of her head tightly.

The moment her lips touched his, his parted slightly. His breath was hot—but his voice was icy.

"Elise... how long has it been since you really looked at yourself in the mirror?"

She froze, eyes snapping open.

Reflected in the depths of his dark pupils, she saw a face—gaunt, sallow, hollowed.

He abruptly pulled away, rising from the bed. He grabbed a robe from the side and draped it over himself, his back to her. With casual movements, he tied the belt around his narrow waist.

"In your current condition," he said coolly, "forget having a child. You’d be lucky if you could even conceive."

Her breath caught, and she stared at him blankly.

Broad-shouldered, lean-waisted, his profile was cold and unyielding.

"Even if you did get pregnant," he continued without looking at her, his voice as sharp as a blade, "I don’t believe you’re capable of being a mother like this."

Each word sliced through the fragile courage she had painstakingly gathered, shattering it completely.

Before she could respond, Dylan had already walked into the bathroom. The door shut, and soon the steady sound of running water filled the air.

Elise lay there, motionless—like a body emptied of its soul.

She stared at the ceiling, her eyes devoid of life.

Not long after, the water stopped. The bathroom door opened, and the man stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist.

He didn’t spare her a single glance. Instead, he walked straight into the dressing room. By the time he emerged, fully dressed, he left without looking back.

From downstairs came the faint sound of a car starting.

Dylan had left again.

Silence swallowed the room. Elise pulled the sheet over her frail body.

Turning onto her side, the moonlight spilled across her back, illuminating the sharp ridges of her spine. It was, undeniably, a body unfit for motherhood.

For five years, she had been trapped in relentless nightmares. She had grown dependent on medication. Each day, she kept down less food than she threw up. At 170 centimeters tall, she weighed barely 40 kilograms.

Slowly, Elise pushed herself upright and slipped out of bed, heading into the dressing room.

She stood before the full-length mirror, staring at her reflection.

Even the smallest size loungewear hung loosely on her frame. Her complexion was sallow, her cheeks hollow, her eye sockets sunken—her entire being drained of vitality.

Her trembling fingers brushed lightly over her dry, brittle hair.

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