My Pregnancy Record Proved I Cheated? Then Why Did My Sister Panic? Chapter 08

My Pregnancy Record Proved I Cheated? Then Why Did My Sister Panic? Chapter 08

Before Chloe’s trial, I went back to my parents‘ 

house. 

The wedding decorations in the living room still 

hadn’t been taken down. 

Chloe’s bridesmaid dress lay crumpled over the 

arm of the couch. 

Dad got up when he saw me. Mom came out of 

the kitchen, wiping her hands over and over on her 

apron without meeting my eyes. 

I set my key on the cabinet by the door. 

“I came to tell you a few things.” 

Dad’s lips moved. 

Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, a grease stain 

on her apron, twisting the edge of the fabric 

between her fingers. 

No one spoke. 

“First, the wedding is off. I’ve already settled 

things with the Holloways. Dana is handling the 

financial settlement over their wedding 

contribution and the down payment on the house Nathan and I were supposed to move into.” 

Dad nodded slowly, almost stiffly. 

“Second, Chloe’s case will take its course. I’m not 

asking for the case to be dropped, and I won’t ask 

for leniency.” 

Mom started crying. 

She took a step toward me and reached out, only 

to pull her hand back. 

“She’s your sister. If she ends up in prison over 

this, how is she supposed to face anyone when she gets out? She’s only twenty–four. Her whole 

life will be ruined.” 

“When she used that pregnancy record to frame me as a cheater at my own wedding and turned the internet against me, did she ever stop to think what that would do to my life?” 

Mom opened her mouth, tears running to the corners of her lips, but no words came. 

Dad finally spoke, his voice rough and strained. 

“Chloe made one terrible mistake.” 

I laughed. 

“One mistake?” 

I unlocked my phone and pulled up my 

screenshots, swiping through them one by one. 

“This is the pregnancy record she photographed. 

The date is a week before the wedding.” 

“This is the message she posted in the family chat 

two hours after the wedding. It had already been 

written out, down to the punctuation.” 

“This is the Instagram post she made after cutting 

her wrist. It was tagged at the hospital before the 

ambulance had even arrived.” 

I pulled a copy of the procedure paperwork from 

my bag and slapped it onto the coffee table. 

The glass tabletop rattled, sending a few drops of 

water over the rim of a cup. 

“This is the signature of the man who was 

supposed to be your son–in–law.” 

“Want to know where he signed it? Outside a 

procedure room on the fourth floor of the women’s 

hospital.” 

“He sat in one of those plastic hospital chairs and 

signed ‘Nathan Holloway.” 

“Chloe was inside having the abortion while he 

signed the paperwork.” 

Mom stared at the copy with one hand over her 

mouth. 

“Your younger daughter slept with the man your 

older daughter was supposed to marry. She got 

pregnant. She had an abortion.” 

“Then she walked into a ballroom full of people holding her own pregnancy record and accused your older daughter of cheating and getting 

pregnant by someone else.” 

“When I was slapped and condemned in that private room, did either of you ever think to question her first?” 

Dad gripped the arm of the couch. The veins 

stood out on the back of his hand, and his fingers 

trembled. 

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. 

“Third.” 

I stood. 

“I saved every voice message you sent in the family chat and every comment calling me shameless.” 

“As of today, I’m done being your daughter.” 

Mom collapsed onto the couch, sobbing into her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. 

Dad lurched to his feet. His knee hit the corner of the coffee table, knocking over a cup and spilling water across the floor. 

“Vivian–I was wrong. I’m sorry.” 

“Too late.” 

I headed for the door. 

Chloe’s bridesmaid dress still hung over the arm of the couch, its champagne–colored satin 

catching the light. 

I walked past it without touching it. 

Behind me, Mom kept crying my name in a hoarse, 

broken voice. 

Then something shattered on the floor. It was 

probably the cup Dad had knocked off the coffee 

table. 

I didn’t turn around. 

The elevator arrived. 

I stepped inside and pressed the button for the 

lobby. 

As the doors slowly closed, I heard my parents‘ 

front door open behind me. 

Dad shouted something from the hallway, but the 

elevator doors cut him off. 

The elevator descended, the floor numbers 

changing one by one. 

I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes,