Lahat ng Kabanata ng Love in the Eye of the Storm: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 9

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

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

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

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,

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