Faye's face went deathly pale, swaying as though she might collapse at any moment. "Emily," she said in a trembling voice. "How could you say that…?" At once, Tristan reached out to support her, his voice soft and coaxing. "Faye, you're pregnant. Please, don't let this upset you." The two of them looked like a picture-perfect couple, perfectly matched and harmonious. Watching Tristan's gentle, protective expression tore into me, igniting a raw, familiar ache. During the first three months of my own pregnancy, I'd been so cautious, moving with slow, deliberate steps even as we shopped for baby essentials together. And how had he responded? With a dismissive sneer. "I've never met anyone as delicate as you," he'd scoffed, exasperated by my slower pace. Then there was the day he'd asked me to bring him some important documents. A raging storm swept through the city, lightning crackling against the sky, as I called him to say I felt unwell, asking if someone else could make the t
After returning home, I felt an unsettling sense of unfamiliarity creeping in. This place once held every precious memory of me and Tristan. I opened the drawer and found the pregnancy report nestled within. I still remember his face the day we discovered the news—an expression of unbridled joy that couldn't have been feigned. He'd even gently traced my stomach, whispering in awe, "So… our baby is really in here? Say hello to Daddy, little one." I had laughed, nudging him. "It's only two weeks. He's not ready to say hello just yet." But Tristan, sweeping back a loose strand of my hair, was undeterred. "Oh, he will. First word's going to be 'Daddy'—I'm making sure of it." He even bought a stethoscope just to hear the baby's heartbeat, leaning over with that smile of his that made my heart flutter. "Emily, look! He moved!" I had imagined a future where our child would bring his heart back to me. Now, all of it felt like a mirage. I tore the pregnancy report to shreds and be
Tristan's message seared across my phone screen. Tristan: [Emily, dream on! There's no way I'm divorcing you! EVER!] Tristan: [What do you take me for? Marry me when you want and toss me aside when you don't?] Tristan: [Don't you even care about our child? Are you so heartless that you'd make him fatherless before he's even born?] He sent a photo of the ripped-up divorce agreement. And then another photo arrived. This time, it was of our wedding rings. Tristan: [You haven't thrown these out. You still love me, don't you?]Tristan: [Come back to me. You're still my wife.] A hard-to-describe bitterness churned within me, as if it were tearing at my throat. I froze. An unbidden tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the image for a moment. When I focused again, something caught my eye—a small, barely visible object lying at the edge of the photo, almost hidden by the rings. I zoomed in, shaky fingers hovering over the screen. It was the amulet my mother had given me for t
Tristan's face shifted drastically, his steps faltering as he muttered under his breath, "Impossible. It's not possible…" "Emily," he finally managed, his voice weak, "is what your mother said true?" I closed my eyes and nodded. "Yes, it's true." A flicker of panic flashed in his gaze. It took him several moments to find his voice again. "I… I didn't know you'd miscarry. If I had known, I never would have—" My exhaustion weighed heavily on me as I interrupted, expressionless. "Let's get divorced." I had prepared myself for this long before I arrived. "If you refuse to sign the papers, we'll take this to court," I continued. "You're the one at fault here, and I doubt you want the ugly truth of the Goldberg Corporation's CEO's infidelity plastered all over the headlines."The color drained from Tristan's face. Perhaps it had finally dawned on him: he was the one who had wronged me from the start, the one who had abandoned me time and again for Faye. It was he who had sent
His eyes rimmed red, he took a hesitant step forward. "She's pregnant… I couldn't upset her." I closed my eyes, swallowing back the bitter ache in my throat. "So you'd rather sacrifice me..." "It's not like that, Emily, it's not…" He stammered, losing himself in a mess of words. "I saw the things you threw out at home—the tiny tiger shoes you'd prepared for the baby. I kept them. I picked everything back up." "It's fine, Emily. We can try again… however many children you want, or none, if you'd rather—"I took a step closer, meeting his hopeful gaze for a fleeting second. "Emily…" he breathed, his voice laced with desperation. But I walked right past him, halting only briefly at his side. A cold smile tugged at my lips. "Tristan, do remember to mop up the mess. I don't keep trash around here." I paused. "Including you." * For the next two weeks, I returned to my hometown. Spring had painted the fields in shades of fresh green, with wild grasses swaying in the breeze,
Tristan left with his shoulders slumped. The old family home, though renovated over the years, still bore the wear of countless winters and the weight of my mother's hardships. She embraced me tightly, her voice shaking as she cursed, "That wretched man! Had I known he'd turn out this way, I'd never have let you marry him!" Back then, I'd been so determined to marry Tristan. I chose the wrong path; it was my decision, my mistake. None of us could've imagined that the bright-eyed young man from years ago would become a stranger. I chose my words carefully. "Mom, I'm going to start divorce proceedings." She froze, taking a moment before she replied. "Good." She placed a gentle hand on my stomach, and tears, heavy as raindrops, fell onto my hand. "My poor Emily, you've suffered so much. Divorce him. You must." "Don't worry. I have my pension funds. Even if you get a divorce, we'll manage just fine together," she added The one I loved had never truly cared for me, but the one
On the opening day of my art exhibition, a peculiar package arrived—a painting from Tristan. He'd patched it up, of course, but the two butterflies, once vibrant, now bore a visible crack down the middle. I gave a wry smile, as I'd known he would send it; just days ago, I had "accidentally" let slip to our mutual friends that I'd be holding an exhibit. Tristan always took the bait. He wouldn't resist a chance to play his little game. With the painting in hand, I strolled confidently past the media, giving them a generous glimpse of the canvas. Instantly, heads turned, the reporters sensing juicy gossip. "Emily, who sent such a unique piece on this important day?" one reporter probed eagerly. Another added, "The painting appears to have been damaged but carefully restored. Did your lover perhaps send this?" A sharp-eyed journalist spotted the inscription along the bottom. "Wait, look! 'Tristan and Emily's Happy Ever After'! Could it… could it be from Tristan of the Goldberg Co
The next morning, Tristan Goldberg's call jolted me awake. His tone was sharp, dripping with irritation. "A whole day and night gone, and you still couldn't deliver one file? Do you have any idea how close I was to losing that deal because of you?!" But he didn't know that I had lost something far more precious—our unborn child. I traced my hand over my now-flat stomach and calmly replied, "Let's get a divorce." For a moment, the years flashed before me—the decade I'd spent with him, from when I was just fifteen, believing time would change everything, believing one day he'd love me back. We had grown up together, after all; childhood sweethearts, or so I thought. When he picked up car racing, I threw myself into it too. When he took up basketball, I followed, trailing him around the court as his self-appointed ball girl, enduring everyone's laughs, desperate for a place by his side. I had thought if I could just keep up, if I could just stay close enough, he'd eventually s