Left at the Altar with His Triplets: The Billionaire Begs for Forgiveness - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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I instinctively placed my hand over my abdomen—that still flat, unmarked place.
I hadn't wanted to tell him this way, not in such an awkward and heartbreaking situation.
But before I could speak, his expression suddenly turned cold.
"You can't be pregnant, Paisley."
His voice wasn't questioning—it was stating, cold and firm.
"What?" I almost whispered the single word through my tears.
"You can't be pregnant." He repeated, this time with a slightly gentler tone, but still certain. "Did you take some kind of medication?"
A strange sense of relief swept through me—he still didn't know about my pregnancy.
My secret was still in my own hands.
"What medication?" I asked, my mind in chaos.
Arnold frowned, worry flickering in his eyes: "Those ovulation-stimulating drugs you've been taking. You can't abuse them—they have side effects."
My chest tightened, not from morning sickness, but from the implication of his words.
"How do you know I'm taking these?" My voice was soft but trembled with unease.
He looked away, seeming somewhat uncomfortable: "Victoria saw the pill bottle in your bag. She recognized the ingredients—they're used to assist pregnancy. She said you might be using too much."
Victoria.
That name rolled around on my tongue, its bitter taste spreading through my mouth.
"What else did she tell you?" I laughed coldly, my voice no longer gentle.
Arnold rubbed his temples, looking exhausted: "She's a professional psychological counselor, Paisley. She understands these things. She's just worried about you."
I straightened my back, anger gradually rising: "So you'd rather believe her than me?"
He was silent for a moment, not answering directly, only saying softly: "You always said they were vitamin supplements. I noticed you going to the hospital more and more frequently... the drugs you're taking, their formulations are all..."
"So you really think the problem is with me?" I interrupted him, my throat dry and hoarse.
He looked at me with a complex expression but didn't deny it.
"You think I'm infertile." I stated the conclusion, feeling my heart being torn apart.
His silence had answered everything.
We'd been married for three years, working toward having a child for three years, and every month I watched disappointment flash across his face.
I had secretly visited gynecologists, checking our fertility, only to discover the problem wasn't with me—it was with him.
I protected his pride, enduring his family's disdain alone, fighting against outside gossip.
All this time, he thought I was the infertile one.
"Arnold, the medication isn't—" I began, but the office door opened, interrupting me.
Victoria stood in the doorway, looking weak and pale, still holding a blood-stained tissue.
"Sorry," she said softly, her voice like mist floating in the air. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just feel... a bit dizzy and want to go to the hospital. Arnold, could you drive me?"
She leaned against the doorframe, looking pitiful.
Arnold frowned, reaching for his jacket on the chair back and pulling out his car keys, clearly planning to take her to the hospital.
Victoria gave me a victor's smile and left the office first, waiting for Arnold to drive her away.
I took a deep breath, grabbed Arnold's arm, and tried to keep my voice steady: "Actually... there's another reason I came to see you."
"What?" he asked instinctively.
I looked at him and said word by word: "I want to hold our wedding."
His brow furrowed: "What wedding?"
"We've been married for three years without a wedding, without rings, without a ceremony. We don't even have a proper wedding photo."
My voice was calm, but my heart was already turbulent: "I've already booked the venue for the fifteenth of this month. Family and friends will all attend."
He looked somewhat impatient: "Paisley, we're so busy with work right now... is it really necessary? These formalities aren't that important to me."
I couldn't help but interrupt him with a cold laugh: "I'll ask you one question: Will you attend this wedding or not?"
He was silent, his face written with indifference.
"Paisley, now isn't the time. You're always doing these romantic things. Aren't we already married? Do we need this performance?"
My heart sank to the bottom.
I nodded and spoke slowly, my tone resolute: "Fine. If you won't attend the wedding, then let's get divorced."
He looked up sharply: "What did you say?"
I hadn't wanted to tell him this way, not in such an awkward and heartbreaking situation.
But before I could speak, his expression suddenly turned cold.
"You can't be pregnant, Paisley."
His voice wasn't questioning—it was stating, cold and firm.
"What?" I almost whispered the single word through my tears.
"You can't be pregnant." He repeated, this time with a slightly gentler tone, but still certain. "Did you take some kind of medication?"
A strange sense of relief swept through me—he still didn't know about my pregnancy.
My secret was still in my own hands.
"What medication?" I asked, my mind in chaos.
Arnold frowned, worry flickering in his eyes: "Those ovulation-stimulating drugs you've been taking. You can't abuse them—they have side effects."
My chest tightened, not from morning sickness, but from the implication of his words.
"How do you know I'm taking these?" My voice was soft but trembled with unease.
He looked away, seeming somewhat uncomfortable: "Victoria saw the pill bottle in your bag. She recognized the ingredients—they're used to assist pregnancy. She said you might be using too much."
Victoria.
That name rolled around on my tongue, its bitter taste spreading through my mouth.
"What else did she tell you?" I laughed coldly, my voice no longer gentle.
Arnold rubbed his temples, looking exhausted: "She's a professional psychological counselor, Paisley. She understands these things. She's just worried about you."
I straightened my back, anger gradually rising: "So you'd rather believe her than me?"
He was silent for a moment, not answering directly, only saying softly: "You always said they were vitamin supplements. I noticed you going to the hospital more and more frequently... the drugs you're taking, their formulations are all..."
"So you really think the problem is with me?" I interrupted him, my throat dry and hoarse.
He looked at me with a complex expression but didn't deny it.
"You think I'm infertile." I stated the conclusion, feeling my heart being torn apart.
His silence had answered everything.
We'd been married for three years, working toward having a child for three years, and every month I watched disappointment flash across his face.
I had secretly visited gynecologists, checking our fertility, only to discover the problem wasn't with me—it was with him.
I protected his pride, enduring his family's disdain alone, fighting against outside gossip.
All this time, he thought I was the infertile one.
"Arnold, the medication isn't—" I began, but the office door opened, interrupting me.
Victoria stood in the doorway, looking weak and pale, still holding a blood-stained tissue.
"Sorry," she said softly, her voice like mist floating in the air. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just feel... a bit dizzy and want to go to the hospital. Arnold, could you drive me?"
She leaned against the doorframe, looking pitiful.
Arnold frowned, reaching for his jacket on the chair back and pulling out his car keys, clearly planning to take her to the hospital.
Victoria gave me a victor's smile and left the office first, waiting for Arnold to drive her away.
I took a deep breath, grabbed Arnold's arm, and tried to keep my voice steady: "Actually... there's another reason I came to see you."
"What?" he asked instinctively.
I looked at him and said word by word: "I want to hold our wedding."
His brow furrowed: "What wedding?"
"We've been married for three years without a wedding, without rings, without a ceremony. We don't even have a proper wedding photo."
My voice was calm, but my heart was already turbulent: "I've already booked the venue for the fifteenth of this month. Family and friends will all attend."
He looked somewhat impatient: "Paisley, we're so busy with work right now... is it really necessary? These formalities aren't that important to me."
I couldn't help but interrupt him with a cold laugh: "I'll ask you one question: Will you attend this wedding or not?"
He was silent, his face written with indifference.
"Paisley, now isn't the time. You're always doing these romantic things. Aren't we already married? Do we need this performance?"
My heart sank to the bottom.
I nodded and spoke slowly, my tone resolute: "Fine. If you won't attend the wedding, then let's get divorced."
He looked up sharply: "What did you say?"
End of Left at the Altar with His Triplets: The Billionaire Begs for Forgiveness Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Left at the Altar with His Triplets: The Billionaire Begs for Forgiveness book page.