A thunderclap boomed outside the window.
Her ears buzzed, and a hint of fear flashed across her pale and numb face: "What?" Her voice was so weak, only her lips moved.
He stood tall beside her bed, his head slightly lowered amid the storm, like an ancient demon watching his sacrifice: "I said, Zhuang Heng is pregnant. With my child."
This time, he spoke so clearly, plainly, coldly, without even the slightest attempt to disguise, shattering her heart without warning.
She didn't know what kind of look she should give him; was it questioning, strong, relieved? Or should she burst into tears?
But her tears had long dried, and she only felt a chill sweep over her body; the thin silken quilt couldn't resist the cold of the spring night. She heard her own trembling voice asking, "When did this happen?"
"During the time you were at the old house with my mother," he said, "I had some drinks while on a business trip."
