"Director, something is wrong! The hospital computers were hit by a virus. Now the obstetrics department has two patients listed as Number Seventeen!"
The young nurse burst into the director's office, breathless. Only then did the director realize someone had made a serious mistake. Staring at the real medical order, his face darkened. He immediately dialed the number written on it.
—
These past few days, Tristan had treated me with extra care. Even the bruises on my leg didn't escape his eyes. I only said I slipped by accident.
He didn't fully believe me, but he didn't press further.
Today was his birthday. I stared at the email confirming my visa approval, lost in thought.
Early this morning, as he left for work, I asked my brother—who lives in Malaysia year-round—to book me a ticket for tonight, along with a chartered plane.
The last time I booked a flight on my own, Tristan canceled it immediately. He didn't like me traveling alone.
I arrived at a small law office, ready to prepare his birthday gift.
...
At the company entrance, Jasmine had been waiting for Tristan.
She had already reserved a five-star restaurant and a luxury hotel suite. Inside the gift box she held was a pregnancy report—her "grand surprise."
"Tristan, open it," she urged, eyes sparkling with anticipation, imagining he'd be just as thrilled.
Tristan examined the report carefully. A smile pulled at the corner of his lips—then vanished just as quickly.
Jasmine knew what he wanted to ask. Before he could say anything, she blurted, "I'll raise the baby myself."
Guilt washed over him. Trying to compensate, he brought her to a nearby auction house.
Moments ago, the jewelry pieces had been displayed on the stage; five minutes later, one hung around Jasmine's neck.
"You've worked hard, Jasmine." Tristan brushed her flushed cheek gently.
That evening, on the way to the hotel, his assistant suddenly sent a message.
[Attorney Martinez, something is wrong with our recent case.]
Back when Tristan returned to the country, his assistant already sensed something was off—the lady involved in the case had vanished after winning the lawsuit.
Out of responsibility, he continued investigating. What he found was far more horrifying than they had imagined.
After retrieving the child's autopsy report, the truth surfaced:
The child had been strangled by a adult man before being pushed off the rooftop.
The killer was the mother's lover. When the boy learned she was pregnant and tried to run, the man silenced him.
The mother had long fled the country.
Tristan froze in shock, unable to recover.
Then a message popped up on his phone: an alert for the refund of the flight ticket he bought for me. But why did I book only one ticket?
A terrible realization struck him.
He picked up Jasmine's pregnancy report, and snapped, "Does Celine know you're pregnant?"
He pointed at the signature at the bottom—the attending physician was the same doctor who handled my checkups.
Jasmine was terrible at lying. She swallowed hard, eyelids twitching, unable to form a coherent answer.
Tristan suddenly remembered the large bruise on my leg the night she came home from the hospital.
Without a word, he stopped the car, ordered Jasmine out, then spun the wheel and stepped hard on the gas, racing back home.
Every year, I was always the first person to wish him happy birthday at midnight.
Tonight, there was not a single message from me.
His breath grew uneven, his legs shaking.
While waiting at a red light, something in the corner of the passenger seat caught his eye—a hearing aid.
He picked it up with trembling fingers and recognized it instantly. It was mine.
'She had already fully recovered... So that night—she heard everything?' he thought.
A cold, violent chill rushed through him. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Ignoring traffic laws, he sped through several red lights until he reached home.
"Celine! Where are you?!"
The house was completely dark.
On the table sat an exquisite box—the birthday gift I left for him.
Inside was a signed divorce agreement, hearing aid, and a voice recorder, containing the drunken truths from that night's "Truth or Dare."
This morning, while packing, I realized the new recorder in my bag had been left on. I had originally planned to give it to him as a negotiation tool. By accident, it recorded everything he said about me that night.
An hour ago, I left the Martinez household. Before leaving, I deleted all my fingerprints from the door, and I removed my wedding ring. The mark still pressed deep into my skin. I tossed the ring toward the door without looking back.
I snapped my SIM card in half.
No one in this city could contact me anymore.
Tristan rushed inside, searching the entire house like a madman.
The gift box fell to the floor unnoticed.
Only when he realized no one was home did he finally see the divorce papers.
Without hesitation, he tore them into pieces. Then, he mobilized every connection he had to find me.
"Celine... I told you before," he murmured, voice trembling with obsession. "Between us, there will only ever be widowhood—never divorce."
