Five months into my pregnancy, I finally got my marriage certificate with my billionaire husband.
The very next day, he declared bankruptcy.
After that, he took up food delivery while I stayed home. With nothing better to do, I scrolled through my phone and stumbled across the hottest local video trending in our area: "The Hottest Delivery Guy."
"This is SO romantic! Our CEO pretended to be broke and moved into the old neighborhood just to be closer to the shop owner's daughter. He even bought the room right next to hers!"
"She casually mentioned she only wanted gifts that were earned through hard work, so the CEO spent half a month delivering food!"
My finger trembled. I swiped into a livestream.
The host was pointing at a couple behind her, cuddled together over a Japanese restaurant table, clearly moved by what she was witnessing.
"Now THIS is true love! The girl wanted sushi but felt bad about spending her boyfriend's money."
"And you know what he did? He sold his family heirloom ring just to make her happy!"
"Your girl here bought the ring back from the pawnshop. I'm going to return it to them in just a minute."
I took a screenshot. I stared at that ring for a full thirty minutes.
Then, stiffly, I raised my hand and looked at my ring finger. Nothing left but the faint tan line where a band used to be.
My phone buzzed. A text from my husband.
"Tilda Manning, I was supposed to deliver to a sushi place today but couldn't find the customer. The owner told me to keep the food, so just have that for dinner tonight."
——
I looked at the message, then switched back to the livestream.
The host had already returned the ring. Now she sat across from the couple, chatting with them. The camera was angled low, barely catching their chins.
I sent my husband a random emoji.
The man on screen whose chin was all I could see—his phone buzzed.
I sent another one. Another buzz.
He finally deigned to pick up his phone and reply.
"Tilda, I'm still out on deliveries. Stop blowing up my phone."
Then he set it down and poured a glass of water for the girl beside him.
He had never once checked whether my glass was empty when we went out together. Not once.
But I was sure now. That man was my husband, Nathan Ellison.
And the ring in front of him, the one with the letter L engraved on the inside, was no coincidence. It was my wedding ring—the one that had "gone missing" a few days ago.
The host watched the couple and sighed with envy. "Your boyfriend really loves you."
The girl bit her lip, blushing, and gave Nathan a playful shove on the arm. He caught her hand and held it.
Honestly, the sight made me nauseous—and I'd never once had morning sickness this entire pregnancy.
I looked at the new ring glinting on the girl's finger, and it all clicked. He'd sold mine so they could wear a matching set. After all, couple's rings came in pairs. There was no such thing as a set of three.
The host and the comment section were eating it up, gushing over the romance, begging for their love story.
This time, Nathan volunteered to speak.
He said they'd met on a rainy day—his favorite kind of weather—because her umbrella had such a unique pattern that he couldn't help but notice her.
He said they both loved eating fish eyes, so they'd always split them, one for each.
He said he'd been planning their wedding for a long time, but circumstances meant they had to wait. He promised he'd make it up to her.
I used to think Nathan was just oblivious.
After all, he never noticed that I loved rainy days too.
He never noticed that I also loved fish eyes.
Forget noticing the pattern on my umbrella—he couldn't even remember where he'd put my prenatal checkup reports.
The day Nathan agreed to marry me, the smile on his face hadn't come close to the one I was watching on this livestream.
But I had believed in him anyway.
Even when the bankruptcy came out of nowhere, with no explanation that made sense, I hadn't questioned him. Not once.
By the time I wiped the tears from my face, the livestream was winding down. The camera wobbled as the host stood up.
And finally, I got a clear look at the girl's face.
