Dress & Him to Her, I Move On

Chapter 3

Tears spilled down Celeste's cheeks, dropping onto her sharp, flat collarbones.

Edmund's face darkened. He yanked her behind him, shielding her from me like I was some kind of threat.

"Tessa Rogers, that is enough."

He said my full name, sharp and cold, thick with disgust and scolding.

His eyes raked over me, taking in my shapeless lounge wear and my tired face. The contempt in his gaze was unmasked.

"Celeste comes over here to check on you and return your dress, and you have to be so vicious? Where's the grace you had on stage? Look at you now—you're nothing but a bitter, angry shrew."

Shrew.

The word landed hard. The whole room went quiet.

I just stared at him.

I'd quit every show, every tour, every dream I'd ever had, because he'd told me he wanted a home with me.

I'd let the doctors pump me full of hormones. I'd endured the nausea, the bloating, the sleepless nights. I'd turned my own body into a vessel for him.

And this was what I got. That I was a shrew.

He was standing there protecting the woman who'd never sacrificed a single thing for him, who'd stolen my dress and my spotlight and my life.

And he was telling me I was the one who'd lost her grace.

The last tiny, stupid thread of affection I'd had for him snapped right then and there.

I didn't argue. I didn't defend myself. I didn't have it in me.

I turned to the desk against the wall, pulled open the bottom drawer, and hauled out every single medical record from the last 6 months.

I dumped the whole stack on the desk. On top was the signed IVF consent form.

Underneath, dozens and dozens of follicle scan reports. Pages and pages of injection schedules, marked with dates and times.

I flipped on the paper shredder. The low, grinding hum cut through the silence.

I grabbed the thick stack of scan reports and fed them straight into the slot.

The metal teeth chewed through the paper, tearing it into thousands of unrecognizable scraps.

Edmund let go of Celeste and stepped forward, his jaw tight with rage. "Have you lost your mind?"

I ignored him. I picked up the IVF contract with his bold signature scrawled across the bottom and fed that in too.

I remembered the day he'd signed it.

He'd stroked my hair and said, "You're so brave, babe. Thank you for doing this for us."

Now all those stamped, official pages were turning into confetti in the bin.

When the last piece of paper fell through, I turned the machine off and wiped my hands clean with a wet wipe.

Edmund's face was thunderous. He was so used to me obeying that he couldn't wrap his head around what was happening.

"You destroyed all your records. How are you going to go back to the clinic?" he snapped, barely holding back his anger.

"I'm not going back."

I tossed the wipe in the trash, my voice calm and flat.

"You were right. I lost my grace a long time ago—lost it to all these bruises and needles all over my stomach. So I'm done. I'm not having your baby."

Something flickered in his eyes, a c***k in his composure. He stood there, rigid, trying to work out if I meant it.

I didn't give him time to process. I walked straight to the walk-in closet, reached to the very back shelf, and pulled out the black fitted yoga set I'd hung up a year ago.

I stopped right next to him on the way back.

"You two go ahead. I have a Pilates and rehab class to get to."

I looked him dead in the eye, my tone even and icy.

"Oh, and Edmund? Move all your stuff out of the master bedroom tonight. It's too crowded with you in there. And that cologne you wear? It makes me sick."

I walked straight into the bathroom without another word and slammed the door behind me.