And he'd kept it from me—lied to my face every single night for three years.
I scrubbed the tears away and set the phone back exactly where I'd found it.
I pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Inside were all my professional certifications.
My fingertips traced the embossed lettering, and for a moment I saw myself again—standing at the front of a conference hall, commanding the room.
But just days ago I'd been nothing. A useless thing that couldn't even keep her own baby alive.
I dialed the number I knew by heart.
The call connected, and a strong, weathered voice came through.
"Georgina, is that you?"
I drew a deep breath and answered clearly. "Professor Bennett, I want to come back. Is there still a place for me?"
Silence on the other end, just for a beat, then unmistakable delight breaking through.
"Of course there is! My chief interpreter seat is open and waiting!"
After I hung up, I gathered my important documents together.
I had barely stepped out of the bedroom when I saw Chester coming out of his study.
The smile from his video call with Glenda was still sitting on his face.
The moment he noticed me, his lips pressed together and he signed.
Going back to the office? Don't overdo it.
I gave a quiet "mm," but couldn't stop the sadness from leaking through.
Chester rushed over and pulled me into his arms.
His hand settled on my flat, hollow stomach, as if grieving the baby we'd just lost.
Except none of it was real.
He'd watched me bleed out on that floor and done nothing. What grief could he possibly share with me?
All of this—the arms, the tenderness—was just to keep me calm, keep me obedient, keep me running his company the way I always had.
That was the only way he could give Glenda his undivided attention.
I pried his fingers off me, turned around, and asked him:
"Your condition. When is it going to get better?"
His fingers flew over the screen, and the mechanical voice played from his phone.
Georgina, do you still look down on me for being mute?
That day you miscarried—I wasn't ignoring you. I had another episode.
If you think I'm just dead weight, I can let you go.
Every single time I brought up his illness, Chester fell back on the same guilt trip.
When his parents cornered me about when I'd produce an heir, he said nothing.
When the press accused me of marrying him for the Delgado fortune, he stayed silent.
When I was on the verge of losing our baby, he wouldn't even make one emergency call for me.
And afterward, Chester would always apologize, tell me he was just a mute, tell me he didn't deserve me.
Every single time, I'd shake my head through tears and promise I would never leave, that I'd stay by his side until the day he was cured.
The illness was fake. But every ounce of what I'd lost for him was real.
I let go of the last thread holding me to this marriage and said, "Then let's divorce."
Chester's pupils contracted sharply.
He was about to type a reply when the ringtone he'd assigned to that one special contact went off.
He hurried into the bedroom.
The second the call connected, he shut the door behind him without thinking.
I laughed at myself.
I'd take that as his answer.
I went to the company, submitted my resignation, and finished the handover while I was there.
On the way back to the hotel, Chester sent me a message reminding me not to forget the class reunion that evening.
I started typing a refusal, deleted it, hesitated, then sent back a single word: Okay.
Whatever was happening between Chester and me, there was no reason to take it out on old friends.
But when I stepped into the private dining room and saw Glenda Fox—who was supposed to still be overseas—I wished I hadn't come.
She was glowing. Every inch of her polished by her years abroad.
And me? Years of running the company, night after sleepless night, and a miscarriage still fresh in my body—I caught my reflection in the window and barely recognized the sallow face staring back.
