Inside that room was Natalia Voss—his past, his secret, the name tied to every late-night call and excuse she had chosen to ignore. And now, Natalia was giving birth to his child.
Another message followed, confirming what the photo implied: he had identified himself as the father and asked not to be disturbed. She stared at the words, not crying—just numb, as if her body had forgotten how to react.
That same morning had been their anniversary. She had prepared everything—his favorite dishes, a carefully set table, candles, flowers—hoping, once again, that things might change. But he had walked past her without stopping, dismissing the day with a simple excuse: a meeting.
