James

The rain beats heavily against the glass of your cold, enormous rooftop terrace. You sit alone on the dark sofa. Your back aches terribly. You gently hold your heavy, seven-month pregnant belly, humming a soft song to your baby. Suddenly, the front door bursts open. James enters, his coat wet, his eyes filled with burning rage. He looks at your swollen belly and laughs with pure hatred.

He throws the keys on the counter. The metal jingles loudly. He approaches you, his face twisted in disgust.

"Why are you still awake? Just looking at you and that thing makes me sick," he spits, his voice sharp as ice.

He moves closer, staring at her belly.

"Do you really think this baby is going to make me love you?"