Khloe layered cheap foundation over her bruises at the mirror. “An abortion is ten grand, Preston. Find the money.”

His phone chimed.

He opened the email. The first attachment was Khloe’s real blood work. Negative. The second was the receipt for the fake sonogram. The third was the clinic tech’s recorded statement: she wasn’t pregnant, she’d paid two grand to fake the scan and extort her boyfriend.

The room fell silent. Khloe dropped her makeup sponge.

Preston rose from the sofa, the hollow fear in his eyes curdling into the fury of a man who realized he’d burned his life down for a lie. The two of them detonated—screaming, throwing things, a brawl loud enough that the neighbors called the police.

When the officers arrived, Khloe, cornered and out of masks, spat the truth at him in front of them all.