Davies moved even faster than I had imagined.
The next morning, before I was even out of bed, my mother’s call came through.
“Deanna! What on earth is going on with you? Davies says you can’t have children? And now you’re talking about divorce? Have you lost your mind?”
Clutching the phone, my throat felt dry.
“Mom, it’s not what you think…”
“What do you mean ‘not what I think’? Then what is it?!” my mother snapped before I could explain, her voice rising into a furious roar.
“Where are you ever going to find a man as good as Davies? So you can’t have children? So, what?! Medicine is so advanced now. Can’t you just do IVF? Why are you being so unreasonable? Hurry up and apologize to Davies! Beg him not to divorce you!”
Listening to her scolding, my heart turned cold.
The first thing my own mother worried about wasn’t whether I was hurt or humiliated. She was worried about losing Davies, the source of her funds.
“Mom, Davies cheated. He got another woman pregnant.”
I tried to explain, but she cut me off instantly.
“So what?”
Her tone was firm, self-righteous even.
“Men fool around outside all the time! As long as he still acknowledges you as his wife and brings the money home, that’s what matters! What are you making such a fuss for? Stop it right now and apologize to him!”
At that, I hung up the phone and immediately blocked her number.
Not even two minutes later, my father called.
His voice was heavy, weighed down with frustration.
“Deanna, Davies just called. He said he’s terminating all cooperation with our factory. Do you realize what that means? Dozens of workers are waiting to put food on the table! Can’t you… Can’t you just endure this a little longer?”
Hearing my father’s voice almost pleading, my chest tightened, as though a giant hand had gripped my heart and refused to let go.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I closed my eyes, my voice hoarse. “This time, I really can’t endure it.”
He stayed silent for a long time before letting out a weary sigh and hanging up.
Before I could recover, Messenger began to buzz nonstop with notifications.
Several wealthy wives I used to be on friendly terms with reached out, their messages dripping with false concern.
[Deanna, I heard you and President Osment are divorcing? Is it true?]
[Oh, not being able to conceive isn’t such a big deal these days. You can always do IVF.]
[Exactly! Why go as far as divorce? President Osment is such a good man. You should cherish him.]
One even “kindly” recommended an old traditional medicine doctor who specialized in infertility.
My hands trembled with rage as I scrolled through their messages.
So this was Davies’s doing. He couldn’t wait to shout it from the rooftops that I was infertile.
I didn’t bother replying. I muted every single one of them.
But the peace didn’t last. Soon, the doorbell began to ring.
Peering through the peephole, I saw Tanisha.
She was dressed in a designer maternity dress, her belly already slightly showing. One hand supported her waist, the other carried a luxury shopping bag, and her face was full of pride.
I hadn’t intended to open the door, but she kept pressing the bell relentlessly, loud enough that neighbors began peeking out curiously.
With a sharp pull, I opened the door.
Tanisha flinched in surprise but quickly lifted her chin again.
She thrust the bag toward me with a patronizing smile.
“Deanna, I heard you’re divorcing Davies? Don’t be too upset. After all, since you can’t have children. It’s only natural for him to want one. This little gift is just a bit of compensation from the two of us.”
I stared at her gloating face and spat out just two words.
“Get out.”
Her expression faltered, but then she seemed to remember something and forced a laugh.
Rubbing her belly deliberately, she said, “Oh, don’t be angry, Deanna. Anger is bad for your health. Not that… well, not that you really have anything left to protect.”
She laughed, then, with feigned innocence, she added, “By the way, Davies said this house will be for me and the baby from now on. When are you planning to move out? Pregnant women need a quiet environment for nurturing life, you know.”
I watched her little performance with impatience, my tone flat.
“Done talking? If you’re done, get out. Don’t dirty my floor.”
Her smile froze, then cracked into fury. She shouted, “Deanna! Who do you think you are?! You’re nothing but a barren hen sitting on a nest without laying eggs! Davies never loved you! Be smart and get lost already!”
“Oh?” I arched my brow. “So he doesn’t love me, but instead loves you—the office bicycle? Didn’t you climb into several executives’ beds before your probation was even over? Does Davies know the baby isn’t his?”
