I stare at my reflection in the mirror of Le Petit Jardin’s restroom, smoothing my hands over my dress.
Tonight is special, not just because we’re celebrating eight years together but because I have something wonderful to tell Vincent.
I press my hand gently against my stomach. It’s early — only a few weeks — but I can already feel the change. This child is a dream I didn’t realize I’d been holding on to until it became real.
As I make my way back to our table, I smooth the fabric of my dress and sit down.
Vincent isn’t here yet.
He’s probably caught up at work, I tell myself. It’s been a busy few weeks for both of us. Between his cases at the firm and the whirlwind of wedding planning, there’s barely been time to breathe, let alone relax.
I run a hand again over my stomach, the smallest of smiles tugging at my lips. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell him. Tonight feels perfect. An anniversary dinner at the restaurant where we had our first date. It’s poetic, really.
The news is still so fresh, and part of me wants to hold it close just a little longer, savoring the joy before sharing it with the world. But I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him.
He’s always talked about wanting a family, about how much he’d love to be a father. “I’ll be the dad I never had,” he told me once, his voice full of quiet determination.
I smile, imagining the way his eyes will light up when he hears the words.
I glance at the door, willing him to walk through it. The waiter approaches, filling my water glass with a polite smile. “Would you like to order something while you wait?”
“A bottle of Bordeaux and a glass of water for me, thank you,” I replied, glancing at the time on my phone. He’s only five minutes late. Nothing to worry about.
The minutes stretch, and I find myself fiddling with the edge of the napkin, my excitement giving way to nervousness.
I take a sip of water, rehearsing how I’ll tell him. Should I just say it? Or ease into it with some hint about the future?
The door opens, and I look up. There he is.
Vincent steps into the restaurant, his coat draped over his arm. He scans the room, spotting me immediately, and for a brief moment, something flickers across his face — hesitation, maybe.
After a warm hug and a short order, I couldn’t help but reminisce about our first visit here and discussing the last details for our wedding.
He nods absently, but I can tell he isn’t listening. His gaze keeps flickering between me and the candle, and he hasn’t touched his wine.
I frown, pausing for a moment. He’s been distant lately, distracted. I’d assumed it was just work stress or the overwhelming nature of wedding planning, but now I’m not so sure.
“Vincent,” I say gently, reaching across the table to take his hand. “What’s going on with you? So quiet lately. Is something wrong?”
He pulls his hand away, the movement sharp and unexpected. My heart sinks.
“I have to tell you something,” He takes a deep breath, his eyes finally meeting mine. They’re filled with an anguish I don’t understand, and it makes my stomach churn. “About my bachelor party.”
I sit up straighter, my pulse quickening. “What is it?”
He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until he finally speaks.
“I made a mistake, a huge unforgivable mistake,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words hang in the air between us, and I feel my throat tighten. “What do you mean?”
He swallows hard, his hands gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “At the bachelor party… I drank too much. There was… a woman.”
For a moment, I don’t understand. The words don’t register. But then they do, and it feels like the ground beneath me has crumbled.
“You… cheated on me?” My voice is barely audible, the question trembling as it escapes my lips.
“It didn’t mean anything,” he continued quickly, his voice shaking. “It was one night. A stupid, reckless mistake. But…” He takes another deep breath, and his next words come out in a rush. “She’s pregnant with my child.”
I stare at him, numb, as the full weight of his confession settles over me.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” I manage, my voice cracking.
But he isn’t done.
“I have to take responsibility,” he continues, his tone desperate, like he’s pleading for me to understand. “I can’t abandon the child, Abby. I… I have to marry her
The words slice through me like a knife. For a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think. My world — the future we’ve been planning for years — shatters before my eyes.
I watch him sitting there, his head bowed, his hands trembling as they grip the edge of the table. He looks broken, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness clawing at my chest.
I want to say something. Anything. I want to scream, cry, demand answers. But the words won’t come. My throat feels tight, my hands numb where they rest in my lap.
I should yell at him. Throw my glass of water in his face. But I can’t. I feel frozen, hollow. There’s no space for anger right now — just a quiet, suffocating ache where my heart used to be.
Vincent looks at me, his eyes filled with shame, pleading for something I can’t give him. Forgiveness? Understanding? I don’t know.
“I’m so sorry, Abby,” he whispers.
I nod, the motion mechanical. My body is moving, reacting, but I’m not there. I’m somewhere else, trapped in the wreckage of the life we’ve built, watching it crumble.
My lips part, but no sound comes out. What could I possibly say? The love of my life has just destroyed me.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Vincent says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He now can’t meet my eyes. “The wedding… the deposits… everything. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
His words sting more than they soothe. He’s trying to ease the fallout, to make amends in the smallest, most practical way. But there’s no salvaging what’s left of us.
“Okay,” I murmur, my voice unfamiliar, distant, as if it belongs to someone else.
I force myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath me. If I stay a second longer, I’ll shatter completely, and I refuse to let him see me like that.
He doesn’t try to stop me. He doesn’t say another word. Maybe he knows it’s too late.
By the time I reach home, I’ve resolved to let him go. Let him take care of the mess he’s created. I’ll handle moving forward.
Because as much as it hurts, I know one thing for certain: I can’t stay with a man who broke my trust. Even if I still love him.
