He is My Husband But He Didn't Save Me

When I was in a car accident, the car passing by had Zach Stark with him.

Seeing me bleeding profusely and the baby in my belly barely clinging to life, the driver wanted to stop and help. But Zach stopped him, urging, "Don't bother her. She won't die!"

He ordered the driver to speed up and leave.

He was my husband. But he didn’t save me.

Later that night, as I lay in the hospital ward, I saw the news. His beloved Vicky Cain, his so-called “first love,” had returned to America.

I calmly picked up my phone and dialed my lawyer.

"Atty. Miller, please help me draft a divorce agreement."

The next day, I went to Zach with the agreement.

He was busy at the company, and his expression darkened the moment he saw me.

When I took out the papers, his frown deepened further.

"How old are you? Still playing games like writing our names together?" He sneered as he signed his name with a few quick strokes, cutting off any explanation I might have offered.

He didn’t even glance at the document. He assumed it was just another childish whim of a wife desperate for attention.

For seven years, I chased him. I begged for his love, forced his hand, and even saved him when the Stark family went bankrupt. That was when he became my husband. We had our moments of sweetness, fleeting as they were. But everything changed when Vicky came back.

He clearly saw me at the accident scene but left in a rush to pick her up from the airport. He couldn’t bear to let Vicky endure the cold wind, yet he left me bleeding on the ground.

This time, I decided to let him go.

He didn’t realize the papers he signed would soon take effect.

With an impatient tone, he urged me to leave. I returned home and started packing.

But then, Zach appeared. He walked in, holding a bouquet of bright roses.

"Yvette, I was too busy at work today. I didn’t treat you well this morning. You’re not angry, are you?"

I didn’t expect him to bring me flowers.

The pollen filled the air, and my throat began to burn like fire. I staggered, searching for my allergy medicine.

Seeing my reaction, Zach’s face turned impatient.

"Are the flowers I gave you not good enough? What else do you want, Miss?"

But when he noticed my labored breathing, his expression shifted to worry.

He rushed to me, his hands trembling as he held me. I could feel his rapid breathing as he carried me.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital again. Zach sat by my side, his eyes full of guilt as he held my hand tightly.

"Yvette, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trigger your allergy."

For the first time, his eyes were fully on me.

My throat burned as I croaked out the question I had buried for years.

"Zach, have you ever loved me?"

Through all these years of entanglement, I had wanted to ask this countless times.

He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he touched my abdomen and murmured softly,

"Yvette, don’t overthink. I’ll treat you and the baby well from now on."

But his words pierced through me.

It hit me that, for seven years, I had been the only one fighting for us. He never loved me.

Our baby had died because of him.

Pain crushed my chest, making it hard to breathe. Zach gently patted my back, his face full of concern.

Then his phone rang, cutting through the tension. A woman’s voice came from the receiver. He gave me an apologetic look and left the ward.

Left alone, I curled up under the blanket and pulled out my phone.

I scrolled through Vicky’s social media, torturing myself.

[My ex-husband came to pick me up as soon as I landed in America. Those roses he gave me were so tacky.]

It turned out the apology gift Zach had given me was nothing but trash Vicky had rejected.