Pregnant... and So Is His Mistress!

Chapter 8

I ignored him and turned to close the door. He quickly squeezed inside.

Before I could react, he suddenly pinned me against the wall and embraced me, his voice low:

"Karla, give me one more chance."

The arms that once brought warmth now disgusted me.

I angrily pushed him away:

"Don't touch me... I'm calling the police!"

But he didn't budge, chuckling:

"We're husband and wife, on what grounds would you call the police?"

Ignoring my resistance, his hand gently caressed my face:

"Karla, I know you hate me because we lost the baby. It's okay, we can have another child and start over."

I frowned in revulsion:

"Are you insane?"

"Don't waste your energy. The doctor said I can never get pregnant again!"

He didn't believe me:

"Didn't the doctor say it would be very difficult for you to get pregnant after your last miscarriage? Yet you still got pregnant this time."

I couldn't believe he had the nerve to bring up the previous miscarriage.

In our first year of marriage, Max had a fight with his half-brother. In a rage, his brother tried to run Max over with his car.

At the critical moment, I pushed Max out of the way.

He was unharmed, but I was knocked down, blood pooling around me.

At the hospital, I found out I had been 4 weeks pregnant.

After that incident, I developed psychological trauma and had to hold his hand even when crossing the street.

"I'm really curious, that night when you deliberately hit me with your car to stand up for Chloe, what were you thinking?"

He was speechless. But I wasn't done.

"You don't dare say it, so I'll say it for you. You knew what I was afraid of, so you deliberately used a car accident to scare me, right?"

His eyes filled with intense pain:

"Stop..."

"I know I'm scum, but I really don't want to leave you."

"Our feelings run so deep, how can we just end it like this!"

He muttered to himself, seeming to have made some decision, and gave a strange smile:

"Karla, I know you're the most soft-hearted. You may hate me now, but once we have a child, you'll forgive me..."

As he spoke, he started unbuttoning my shirt. I reflexively slapped his hand away:

"I said don't touch me, you're filthy!"

He froze, his eyes gradually turning bloodshot:

"What... did you say?"

He couldn't believe I would call him filthy.

He had once told me that his mother passed away when he was young, and his stepmother mistreated him.

He wanted to please his stepmother and brother, so one time when school gave out snacks, he didn't eat them himself but brought them home for his brother.

However, when his stepmother saw, she slapped his hands red in disgust, snatched away the snacks and stomped on them:

"Where did you get this filthy stuff! Don't give my son anything touched by your dirty hands!"

This was a deep trauma for him.

We used to be so close, sharing our secrets, and thus knew each other's vulnerabilities.

He never imagined that one day I would use his secret as a sharp weapon to hurt him.

He was deeply wounded, but I felt no sympathy at all. Instead, I slowly repeated:

"I said, you're filthy."

His body trembled slightly, unable to bear the extreme pain and anger. He suddenly raised his hand.

I didn't dodge.

The crisp sound of a slap rang out.

He involuntarily took half a step back, staring at his own hand in disbelief, his eyes full of remorse:

"I..."

I said coldly:

"Leave."

"If you don't go, I'll call the police to make you leave."

He wanted to explain but couldn't speak. He dejectedly lowered his hand and left in dejection.