The Pregnant Woman's Rebellion

The light from the crystal chandelier shattered into stars within the wine glass. Clutching the hem of my dress, I walked toward Jerry as the banquet hall's clamor receded like a retreating tide. Today is our third wedding anniversary, and he just said on stage that he wants to give me a starry sky. "What are you thinking?" He took the champagne from my hand, his fingertips brushing the back of my hand, carrying that familiar warmth. "I'm thinking about how you tricked me the same way three years ago." I tipped my head back and drained the glass; the bubbles burst in my throat with a faint, tingling pain, a sensation mirroring the bitter ache inside my heart right now. He chuckled softly and was about to lean in for a kiss when a sudden commotion came from the entrance. Lydia Miller, dressed in a stark white lab coat that clashed sharply with the celebratory mood, strode straight through the crowd to the center of the stage. She was Jerry Collins' childhood sweetheart and also our family therapist, yet in this moment, she felt like an intruder, shattering all the warm illusions. "Sorry to interrupt everyone," she said, lifting the microphone. The metallic clink pierced the eardrums. "But some things must be known by all." I saw Jerry's face darken instantly. He hurriedly tried to step onto the stage but was pinned in place by Lydia Miller's sharp glare, as if bound by invisible chains. "Reagan Shaw suffers from severe emotional dependence disorder," Lydia's voice rang through the speakers, each word striking the guests' hearts like small stones. "Jerry has been undergoing special therapy with me to help her desensitize." The guests gasped sharply in shock. My fingers gripped the tablecloth, turning white, knuckles pressing into my lower abdomen — where a three-month-old secret stirred, a new life I hadn't yet dared to reveal to anyone. "The so-called desensitization therapy," Lydia Miller suddenly raised her voice, her eyes striking like poisoned needles at me, filled with unmasked malice, "is meant to sever her pathological attachment to Jerry through intimate contact." "You're lying!" I pushed through the crowd onto the stage, snatched the microphone from her hands, my voice trembling with rage, "Lydia, have you lost your mind?" She stepped back half a pace, her smile a haunting mix of pity and menace that sent a cold shiver down my spine: "Reagan Shaw, stop fooling yourself." Jerry comes to my clinic every Wednesday night—isn't it for this? I snapped my head around to look at Jerry Collins. He stood below the stage, his suit collar crooked from being pulled, his eyes darting away like a child caught in wrongdoing yet refusing to confess. "Jerry, tell them!" My voice shook, carrying the last thread of hope. "Tell them it's not true!" He remained silent for a full thirty seconds, the air thickening as if frozen in time. Then, he nodded gently. In that instant, all the sounds in the banquet hall fell away. All I heard was my heart crashing inside my chest, the thunder shaking my eardrums until they ached. "Jerry Collins," I called his name slowly and deliberately, my nails digging deep into my palm—blood seeping out but I felt no pain. "Say that again?" He parted his lips but finally looked away, his voice barely a sigh: "Reagan, stop it." "Stop it?" I suddenly laughed out loud, a laugh laced with despair. Snatching up the red wine bottle on the table, I hurled the scarlet liquid across his face. "You and your childhood sweetheart putting on this show on our wedding anniversary—and now you tell me to stop it?" Lydia screamed as she wiped the wine stains from Jerry Collins' face, her touch so intimate it felt as if they were the real couple. The guests' phone flashlights flickered like countless eyes in the darkness, relentlessly capturing the absurd scene. I smashed the wine bottle on the floor; shards scattered at my feet, clinking with a sharp, grating sound. As I turned, the hem of my dress caught on the chair leg, and I fell hard onto the carpet. A sudden, sinking pain gripped my lower abdomen. Curling inwards, I heard my teeth chattering—a sound born of both pain and cold. "Reagan Shaw!" Jerry Collins finally rushed over to help me up, only to be shrugged off by me. "Don't touch me." I stared at his chin where the wine dripped, speaking each word clearly, "From now on, we're finished." He froze on the spot, and Lydia Miller seized the opportunity to link her arm with his, softly saying, "Jerry, she's emotionally unstable. I'll take you to clean up first." Their backs walking away together, like a dull knife repeatedly cutting at my heart, the pain almost suffocating me. I pushed myself up from the carpet, straightened my back, and looked at the stunned guests. "Sorry to interrupt your elegant evening," I tugged at my wrinkled gown, forcing my voice to sound calm. "Tonight's party is ending early." As for the earlier scene— Pausing briefly, I raised my voice with a faint, determined edge: "The real show is yet to come."