His Discarded Wife Is A Rune Genius

Alaia Dawson POV:

"Mrs. Dawson, I'm very sorry."

Dr. Evans's voice was flat, devoid of any real sympathy. It was the voice of a man delivering a weather report, not shattering a world.

"The fetus was not viable. It was a complete miscarriage."

The words hung in the sterile air of the hospital room, each one a hammer blow against the fragile glass of my hope.

My body was a landscape of cold. A chill seeped from the starched white sheets into my bones, a lingering echo of the anesthesia and the blood I had lost.

I stared at the medical imaging on his tablet, a swirl of grey and black I couldn't decipher. Data. Curves. None of it looked like a baby. None of it looked like the future I had desperately clung to.

My fingers dug into my own palm, the sharp bite of my nails a desperate anchor to the present moment. A confirmation that I was still here, even if my child was not.

Dr. Evans pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Furthermore, due to the damage from this incident, your chances of conceiving in the future... are extremely low."

The room tilted. The rhythmic beep of the monitor beside my bed seemed to mock the sudden silence in my chest.

My world, already cracked, splintered into a million pieces.

I tried to form a question, to ask what "extremely low" meant, but my throat was a desert. No sound came out.

He offered a curt, professional nod. "Rest well."

Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway, leaving me alone with the wreckage.

A young human nurse, Nurse Riley, slipped in to change the IV bag. Her eyes, unlike the doctor's, held a flicker of pity she couldn't quite hide.

I heard her whispering to another nurse just outside my door. "It's so sad. She's all alone."

The other voice was sharper. "Her husband is Archon Montgomery. You'd think he'd at least show his face..."

The names, my husband's title, were needles in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut, feigning sleep.

When they left, the only sounds were the drip of the IV and the hollow beat of my own heart.

With a strength I didn't know I had, I pushed myself up. My personal terminal lay on the bedside table. My fingers, trembling, found his contact.

Archon Barron Montgomery. My husband.

The call connected. Not to his voice, but to a wall of sound—loud music, laughter, the clinking of glasses. A party.

After a long moment, his voice cut through, sharp with impatience. "What is it? I'm busy."

I summoned every last bit of my strength. "Barron..." My voice was a raw whisper. "The baby... it's gone."

Silence. I could hear him set a glass down on a hard surface. A crisp, clear sound.

Then, his voice, colder than a winter tomb. "I see. These things happen. Rest up. I'll have Adrian handle the bill."

No comfort. No sorrow. Just a transaction. My heart, already broken, turned to ice.

Just as I was about to end the call, my screen flared to life. A pop-up.

Magical Projection request from Julian Carlisle. Accept?

Barron's best friend.

Before I could think, my numb finger brushed against the 'Accept' button.

A three-dimensional image, sharp and vivid, materialized at the foot of my bed.

Barron stood on a lavish balcony, his back to the camera. A blonde woman, Erica Beaumont, his first love, was on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to the side of his face.

He didn't pull away. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh, her body pressing tightly against his.

The projection lasted only five seconds before it vanished. Julian must have realized his mistake.

But five seconds was enough.

The image was burned onto the back of my eyelids.

The terminal slipped from my hand. A violent tremor wracked my body, not from cold, but from a rage so pure and so potent it felt like poison.

I had lost our child.

And my husband was throwing a welcome-home party for his old flame.

Tears finally came, hot and silent. But they weren't tears of grief. They were something else. Something colder.

I wiped them away, one by one. My gaze, reflected in the dark window, was unnervingly calm.

I sat up, ignoring the protest of my bruised body, and ripped the IV needle from the back of my hand. The sting was a welcome distraction.

This marriage. This one-woman show.

It was over.

Ignoring the startled cry of a nurse in the hallway, I walked out of the room, out of the ward, and toward the exit.

I was going back to that gilded cage they called home. I was going to take what was mine.

And then, I was going to leave.