Liv POV
The sharp sting of antiseptic pulled me from the darkness.
I blinked, my vision adjusting to the harsh fluorescent glare. The ceiling was white. The sheets were scratchy against my skin.
Hospital.
I tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slammed me back against the pillows.
"Liv!"
My mother was by my side instantly. Her eyes were red and swollen, the lines of her face etched with exhaustion. She grabbed my hand as if I might disappear.
"Mom," I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper. "The baby?"
She squeezed my hand, her grip trembling. "The doctor said it was a close call. But the heartbeat is still there. You need absolute bed rest, Liv. You can't stress yourself."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
Then, like a physical blow, the memory of the gallery crashed into me.
The white roses. The little boy calling him Daddy. The shove. The blood soaking through my dress.
And Michael walking away.
"He left me," I said. It wasn't a question. It was a verdict.
My mother’s face hardened into stone. "He tried to come in an hour ago. I had security remove him."
"Good," I said.
I looked at the IV tube snaking into my arm.
I felt different. The fear was gone. The sadness was evaporating like mist.
All that was left was a cold, hard rage, settling in my chest like a block of ice.
"I want to see my lawyer," I said.
"Now?"
"Right now."
*
Two days later, I was discharged.
I didn't go home. Home was a battlefield I was done fighting on. I went to a hotel.
I had my lawyer draft the papers immediately.
I sent them to Michael’s office via courier.
That afternoon, my phone rang. It was him.
I didn't answer. I let it ring until it went to voicemail.
I sent a text.
*Liv: Meet me at the cafe on 4th Street. 3 PM. Bring a pen.*
I arrived early. I sat in the back corner, my back to the wall.
Michael walked in at 3:05. He looked tired, his usually pristine appearance fraying at the edges. His tie was crooked.
He saw me and rushed over, feigning relief.
"Liv," he said, reaching for my hand. "Thank God. I've been so worried. Are you okay? Why were you in the hospital?"
I pulled my hand away as if he were contagious.
"Sit down," I said.
He sat. He looked nervous, his eyes darting around the room.
"Liv, about the gallery... Serena is crazy. I didn't know she was coming. I was trying to get her out of there to protect you."
"Stop," I said. My voice was low, steady.
I slid a manila envelope across the table.
"Sign them."
He opened the envelope. He saw the title: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
His face turned red, a vein pulsing in his temple.
"I'm not signing this," he said. He threw the papers down, scattering them slightly. "You're being irrational. We can work this out. I love you."
"You love your image," I said. "And you love your money."
"I'm not signing," he repeated. He leaned forward, his voice turning nasty, the mask finally slipping. "You think you can leave me? You have nothing without me. I made you."
I reached into my bag.
I pulled out a second envelope.
This one was thinner.
I slid it across the table.
Michael opened it.
It was a copy of his company’s internal financial report. Specifically, the forensic accounting of the funds he had embezzled to set up a trust for Serena and Jason.
His face went white. All the blood drained from his arrogant features.
"Where did you get this?" he whispered.
"It doesn't matter," I said. "I was paying attention, Michael. Even when you thought I was just decoration. If you don't sign the divorce papers today, and give me full ownership of the house, I send this to the IRS and your board of directors."
He looked at me. Really looked at me.
He realized for the first time that the submissive, quiet wife he knew was dead. She had died on the gallery floor.
He picked up the pen.
He signed the divorce papers with a shaking hand.
Then he stood up.
He leaned over the table, his face inches from mine, his breath hot with venom.
"You'll regret this," he hissed. "You'll be alone. No one will want used goods like you."
He looked at my stomach. He didn't know. He still didn't know.
"And if you ever manage to have a kid," he spat, "I hope it knows its mother is a cold-hearted bitch who destroyed its father."
He threw the pen on the table and stormed out, the cafe door jingling cheerfully behind him.
I watched him go.
I put a hand on my stomach, protective and fierce.
"He's wrong," I whispered to the baby. "We aren't destroyed."
I picked up the signed papers.
The sun was shining outside, bright and blinding.
I walked out of the cafe.
I was alone. I was pregnant. I was divorced.
But for the first time in years, I was free.
I hailed a cab.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"The airport," I said.
I knew the doctors said bed rest. I knew it was a risk. But I wasn't going back to the house. I wasn't staying in this city.
I had a plan. And Michael wasn't part of it anymore.
