He reached out to touch my face.
I tilted away without making it obvious, my voice flat. “I'm not keeping it.”
His fingers froze. His expression darkened. “You know how hard it was to conceive this baby. I don't want to hear that out of your mouth again.”
I laughed—a ridiculous, broken laugh.
I thought I was the only one who remembered.
Miscarrying our first child eight years ago after I drank at one of his business dinners. The pain. The collapse.
The doctor telling me I might never conceive again, and the hollow not-knowing that followed.
Him staying by my side, day and night, telling me just the two of us was enough for a lifetime.
Eight years of trying. Eight years of hope crushed flat, month after month.
And then, finally, the second baby. Sobbing so hard from joy I couldn't breathe.
His promises still echoed in my ears. But now he wouldn't even come to a prenatal appointment.
He stared at my smile and suddenly asked, “Why are you crying?”
I blinked. Raised my hand. My fingers came away cold and wet.
Something complicated moved through his eyes, and his voice softened.
“No one can replace your place in my heart.”
“It's just a ceremony—no papers. Once I've smoothed things over with her, I'll remarry you.”
I looked at him, long and steady. “Didn't you say you'd make it up to me? Take me on a trip. Let's go right now.”
He looked away. ：“There's still the wedding to prepare for……”
“Of course.” I nodded.
My calm unnerved him. A flicker of panic crossed his face, and for once he tried to explain. ：“I just don't think I could give you my full attention right now……”
Before he could finish, his phone rang.
A girl's voice, tearful, saying she woke up and couldn't find him. His tone changed instantly, soothing and urgent, and he was already walking toward the door.
At the threshold he cupped the phone against his shoulder and tossed back one last line. “Next time. I'll go with you next time.”
Then he was gone.
One “next time,” and ten thousand miles opened between us.
I dialed a number I hadn't called in years.
“Dad. I want to come home.”
“How about Farley Group as a welcome-home present?”
I started packing, planning one last trip. A farewell tour.
Ten years of marriage deserved its own kind of ceremony at the end.
I didn't see Winston's message until I zipped the suitcase shut.
“April likes this house. Move out. I'm having it renovated for the wedding.”
My heart felt like it had been ground under a needle—tiny, dense stabs of pain, one after another.
Ten years really was too long.
Long enough for him to forget that I bought this house with every cent I had.
When we got married, he had nothing. Couldn't afford a house. Couldn't even afford a wedding.
All we did was sign the papers.
I didn't mind. He was the one who cried, harder than me, his voice shaking apart.
“You walked away from being the Pruitt family's princess for this. What could you possibly see in me?”
I smiled. “Your heart. That's all I ever wanted.”
He buried his face in my neck and swore. ：“I will never betray you. Not in this lifetime.”
In the beginning.
Every night he'd dry my hair for me.
On the bad nights, when cramps curled me up and wouldn't let me sleep, he'd pull me close and rub my belly until morning.
Whenever he was home, I never washed a single dish, never cooked a single meal.
When did it start to change?
Some questions don't have answers worth chasing.
Some things, once they spoil, are better thrown away.
I called a cleaning crew and had every last thing of his packed up and tossed.
Then I changed the locks. No one was getting in but me.
Once everything was settled, I grabbed my suitcase and headed straight for the airport.
On the way, every billboard and mall screen was running his wedding announcement with April.
The way he looked at her, so tender it practically spilled off the screen.
I gave a quiet, self-mocking laugh.
I'd thought his growing coldness was just the iron and composure the business world had forged in him.
