He didn’t yell.Didn’t throw a glass. Didn’t say something cruel enough to blame later. Zayden Morozov just stood there — cold, unreadable, dressed in all black — and shattered me with five words. “This… whatever this is. It’s done.”. And just like that, the man who once kissed me like I was oxygen, was now choking me with silence. I laughed. Not because it was funny. But because if I didn’t laugh, I’d start crying, and I’d probably never stop.
“Done?” I echoed, as if my echo would change his mind. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at me.
He just lit a cigarette — indoors, like he owned the air I breathed — and stared out the window like I hadn’t just given him everything.
“You’re not serious,” I said. He was. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched — not with anger. But restraint. The kind that says: If I let myself feel anything, I’ll burn this city down. So instead, he chose to burn me.
“Why?” I asked. No answer.
“Say something, Zayden. Yell at me. Blame me. Fucking—do something.” Still, nothing. He took one last drag, flicked the cigarette in the sink, and turned his back to me. Like I was just another choice he erased. Like I hadn’t been his everything just yesterday. And then he walked out the door — silent, clean, surgical.
That was the day Zayden Morozov left me.No explanation.No goodbye.No warning. Just the ghost of a man who once promised me the world —and the echo of my own breath, breaking in the hallway.
---
The funny thing? I didn’t cry. Not that day. Not the next. I functioned like a robot on caffeine and heartbreak. Worked. Breathed. Slept. Barely.
Wore red lipstick like armor. Smiled like a threat. Until one day, while reorganizing the kitchen cabinets I never used — I nearly passed out from the smell of mint toothpaste.I didn’t need a doctor.Didn’t need Google.I already knew. But I still walked to the chemist. Bought a test. Two, actually — just in case hope came in discount packs. And there they were. Two pink lines.Clear as day. Louder than any apology he never gave.
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“I’m pregnant,” I whispered aloud.To no one.To the empty apartment.To the ghost he left behind.
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I tried to call him. Once. Twice. Fifteen times. Texted. Mailed. Showed up outside the last Bratva safe house I knew of — like some deranged, tear-streaked soldier with a secret. But Zayden Morozov had vanished. Like a ghost with unfinished business.
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So I made the decision.I wouldn’t chase a man who already left.But I would fight like hell for the piece of him I was now carrying.I’d raise this baby. Alone. Quietly. Like a secret folded between bruised ribs. And I’d do it with my damn head held high . I told my family I was doing an internship in Bombay.Technically not a lie. I was interning under life, heartbreak, and extreme nausea.
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1 Week Before Delivery
I was sitting on the floor of my tiny rented apartment, one leg stuffed under the other like a broken yoga pose, arguing with my swollen ankles and sipping warm water that tasted like betrayal. My stomach cramped. Again. Braxton Hicks, I told myself. Fake news.False alarms. Like the love he promised. But then came the next one — sharper, longer, meaner. I hissed. The clock said 2:13 AM. I need to go to hospital.The cab said it will take 45 minutes to reach here and my uterus said, You’re on your own, sweetheart. Perfect. So I did the one thing I never thought I’d do at nine months pregnant: I drove myself to the hospital. On no sleep, no morphine.
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“Are your family or friends coming, miss?” the nurse asked as I tried not to black out on the reception desk. I blinked. “Oh, absolutely. They’re all imaginary. Wanna meet them?” She didn’t laugh.Tough crowd. It wasn’t Braxton Hicks. It was the real deal. And it hurt like the truth. My labour lasted thirty-six hours. Thirty. Six. No one held my hand. No one whispered strength into my ear. No one told me I’d be okay. I screamed. I bled. I almost gave up. Twice. Maybe three times. But I didn’t break. Because somewhere in the middle of all that pain, I realized something- This baby is mine. Not his. Not theirs. Mine.
The baby took her sweet time, just like her father — late, dramatic, and determined to leave a mark. And when they placed her in my arms — wrapped in pink, wailing like a warrior — I knew I had already won. She looked like him. Same eyes. Same mouth. Same quiet rage. But she looked like me too. Scarred. Soft. Stronger than she should be. No man. No family. No crowd cheering. Just me, a trembling body, and a tiny soul wrapped in pink, who didn’t know she was born of war and love and secrets. She was here. And I was alive.
She didn’t know she was the only thing that kept me breathing. And Zayden Morozov would never know. And I held her with everything I had left.
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