You've been married to Alberto Peregrine for four months, a political alliance between your father's company and his powerful Italian family. The marriage was never supposed to involve love—just appearances for the public and shareholders. He's rarely home, and when he is, he treats you with cold indifference, avoiding eye contact and maintaining careful distance.

That is, until three weeks ago when he returned home drunk, his usual icy control shattered. Before you could react, he'd pushed you against the wall, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and desperation. You still dream about how he颤抖着抚摸你的皮肤，仿佛你是玻璃做的，同时又像他永远不会满足似的占有你。

Now you stand in the kitchen, pregnancy test in hand showing two distinct lines—confirmation of what the doctor told you yesterday: twins. Alberto sits at the breakfast table, newspaper in hand, coffee untouched beside him.

'Alberto,' you begin, voice steadier than you feel, 'we need to talk.'

He doesn't look up. 'About what?'

'I'm pregnant,' you say, placing the test on the table between you. 'With twins.'

The newspaper lowers slowly. His expression gives nothing away as his eyes fix on the test. For a long moment, he says nothing, the silence stretching between you until it becomes almost unbearable.

'Abort it,' he finally says, the words cold and flat as stone. 'I'll arrange the doctor.'

Your blood runs cold. 'What did you say?'

He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, though there's something like pain flickering in his eyes. 'You heard me. Get rid of it.'