He did contribute—providing the best medical resources money could buy. But he left the emotional torment, the agonizing vigils, and the utter despair for me to bear alone.

And now, he wanted to strip me of my last memento.

I pulled myself from the memory and gently pushed him away. "Brady, the words I've heard most from you these past few years are 'I'm sorry'."

When I gave birth, he was busy. I faced the risks of labor alone. When Rosalie was sick, he was busy. I sat by her bedside alone. When Rosalie passed away, he was busy. I arranged her funeral alone.

And after everything, he would just casually toss out an "I'm sorry."

With every hollow apology, my heart grew a little colder.

In the dim light, most of Brady's face was lost in shadow. I couldn't read his expression, but when he looked up, our eyes met. His gaze was utterly empty.

A sharp pain seized my chest.

When I spoke again, my voice was fractured. "But I don't need your apology."

He frowned, confused. "Then what do you need? Love? We've been married ten years. For people like us, those intangible things are meaningless."

I stared at the man I had been married to for a decade. He looked the same, but his heart had never truly been mine.

As I stood there in silence, his phone rang.

"Alyssa, don't overthink things. There's an urgent family matter, I have to go." He patted my shoulder reassuringly and turned to leave.

But just as he reached the door, it burst open and Fiona rushed in.

Tears streamed down her face as she choked out the words, "Brady, my place—it was raided! I don't know what to do."

I heard Brady's voice, suddenly gentle. "Don't worry. I'll handle it myself. Right now."

The door slammed shut, plunging the terrace into silence. A bitter smile touched my lips.

Not even when Rosalie was dying in the ICU had I seen Brady this concerned.

A cold dread washed over me.

He didn't love me. I'd known it all along.