Seduced by Her Masseur Cousin - Chapter 6: Chapter 6

That night, Vanessa offered another massage session—therapeutic, she called it. I agreed without thinking, my pulse racing with reckless anticipation. She booked a room so fast it made my head spin.
Stepping inside, I hesitated under the dim, moody lighting. No going back now.
The scent of lavender and eucalyptus wrapped around me the moment I entered, calming my nerves. Daniel worked with professional precision—no wandering hands, no suggestive touches. But every accidental graze of his fingers sent electric sparks down my spine.
I'd expected him to push for more after his confession. Like Michael used to, back when he couldn't keep his hands off me.
Then came the moment I'd both craved and dreaded. His touch was cold, mechanical—nothing like the passion I remembered. It left me empty.
I saw the hunger in his eyes, but he held back.
As he turned to leave, I grabbed his wrist.
"What's wrong?" He looked genuinely confused.
Frustration boiled over. I said exactly what was on my mind.
His eyes widened, then darkened with amusement. A smirk curled his lips as he climbed onto the bed. I closed my eyes, bracing myself—until the sound of a zipper shattered the moment.
I shoved him away and bolted to the bathroom. My body revolted, heaving violently as tears burned down my face. This wasn't just nausea—it felt like a warning. My baby's protest.
I refused his help. I needed to be alone.
For days after, just the sight of Daniel made my stomach twist. The nausea was relentless, stealing my sleep, my appetite, my will. I barely recognized the hollow-eyed woman in the mirror—dark circles like bruises, hair a tangled mess. A desperate housewife cliché. I laughed until it turned into sobs, startling Vanessa.
"Just get rid of it," she hissed. "Michael treats you like trash. Why suffer?"
Her words slithered into my mind, tempting me with freedom. But was it really that easy? I didn't believe her—yet I had no other options.
Divorce flickered in my thoughts. Vanessa swore she was gathering evidence. But no matter how she argued, I couldn't bring myself to abandon the baby. Finally, she gave up, dragging me to the hospital for a checkup.
I went home for my documents while Michael was at work.
The apartment was a war zone—liquor bottles littered the floor, the air thick with the sour stench of whiskey. The man on the couch wasn't the polished tech executive I'd married. This was a stranger—unkempt, hollow-eyed, drowning in self-pity.
For a second, my chest ached for him.
Then he looked up, and my blood turned to ice.
"Why are you leaving me?" he demanded, voice raw. "Why don't you come home?"
Rage flared. I turned away, marching toward the bedroom.
His footsteps followed. "What are you doing?"
"The abortion clinic," I said flatly.
The bottle slipped from his hand. He collapsed against me, sobbing like a child, his tears soaking into my shirt. His arms locked around me—tight, but careful. Avoiding my stomach.
The stench of alcohol made me gag. I tried to push him away, but he only held on tighter.