Six Years of Misplaced Love

Three months pregnant, I doubled over in agony, blood pooling beneath me.

I called Milo Prince in a last-ditch effort for help. The moment he picked up, his voice dripped with irritation. "What is it now?"

My vision was blurring. Before I could cry for help, I heard his childhood sweetheart's teasing laugh. "No interruptions today, okay?"

The line went dead in the next second.

When I opened my eyes again, my belly was flat.

I checked Jessica Clay's social media. A photo showed their hands intertwined, her wrist adorned with the Prince family's heirloom bracelet.

Her caption read, [He said this bracelet was made for me, so I'm keeping it.]

In the past, I'd have called Milo Prince frantically, demanding answers.

Now I rested my hand on my belly and stayed eerily calm, as if losing the baby had drained every ounce of feeling I had for him.

Hours earlier, I'd been thinking about what our baby would look like and if they would look more like Milo or me.

I'd hoped they'd have his good looks and my sweet personality.

But now, my belly was flat. The life tied to me by blood was gone. All my hope for the future was shattered.

I had loved Milo for six years. He had me at hello, and I chased him for three years until he finally said yes.

The night he proposed, I was over the moon, convinced he'd fallen for me and was ready to build a life together.

But that same night, heading to his study to discuss wedding plans, I overheard him on the phone.

His friend sounded confused. "You're not marrying Elaine just because Jessica left the country, right? That's a gamble. How will you explain this to her when Jessica comes back? Elaine chased you for three years, and you proposed. Good luck shaking her off."

I stood outside, expecting Milo to deny it and claim that he wanted to marry me out of love, but he stayed silent.

After a while, he broke it, sounding frustrated. "I'll marry who I want."

The flick of a lighter and the smell of tobacco followed. He never smoked, his hesitation evident.

Before this, I thought he just hadn't seen my worth yet. Once we were married, he'd come to love me. Now I realized love wasn't something one could force, no matter how much they gave.

His heart was a stone, impossible to melt.

...

When I dragged myself home, weak from the miscarriage, Milo lounged on the sofa with a newspaper.

"Give me a massage," he said, not looking up.

I ignored him, sinking onto the sofa to rest.

He rubbed his forehead, annoyed. "I'm sorry, okay? Last night was Jessica's birthday. I couldn't ruin her day. I'm beat. Can you just be reasonable for once?"

I used to feel bad about how hard he worked, so I learned massage to ease his tension. Every evening, I'd massage his shoulders and do everything else to make him comfortable.

Now those tender feelings were gone. "Milo, we're done."