"I said," she declared, her words slow and deliberate, "Tryson is the father of my child. Not you. He has every right to claim that—you don't."
She enunciated every word deliberately, just in case Arthur hadn't fully grasped the weight of what she was saying.
Arthur inhaled sharply, the words sinking deep into his chest like jagged shards of glass. It felt as though she had just ripped something out of him—something fragile, something he wasn't prepared to lose.
His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white, as his heart pounded against his ribs.
"You're lying… aren't you?" he asked, his voice laced with both disbelief and desperate hope.
He fought to keep his composure, but the walls of the car felt suffocating, boxing him in, trapping the rage and pain swirling inside him.
If he weren't confined to his seat, he might have exploded right then and there—yelling, demanding, pleading. But instead, he sat there, his patience hanging by a thread.
