Bye, Husband. Hello, Freedom!

The phone barely rang twice before my best friend Rain picked up.

"Rain," I whispered into the receiver, my voice barely holding steady. "I need your help. My divorce will be finalized in five days. Can you come pick me up then?"

There was a pause, and then the sound of shuffling. “Wait, what? Divorce?” her voice rose sharply. “Alicia, finally! You’ve come to your senses. I told you—you don’t deserve that bastard.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Yeah… I didn’t.”

Denver had stopped deserving me a long time ago. But still, this decision didn’t come easy.

Not until the accident. Not until I lost our baby.

It happened two weeks ago. I was behind the wheel with my adopted sister Patricia in the passenger seat, and I’d had a glass of wine—just one, not even enough for me to be drunk. Still, I didn’t want to drive that day, but Patricia had forced me to do it. And that’s when everything changed. A car bumped into us, too late for me to even turn to save ourselves.

When I woke up in the hospital, I was told two things.

One: Patricia had a fractured leg and a broken arm, but she’d recover.

Two: I had lost the baby. My baby. The only heartbeat I had been holding on to, hoping it would keep our marriage.

But instead of comfort, instead of support—I got blame. I was sure that it wasn’t even my fault. It was the car that collided with us, but because Patricia told them I had a glass of wine—they thought it was my fault for drunk driving.

“You should’ve let Patricia drive,” Denver had growled at my bedside, eyes burning. “She had a conference to attend for the company. And now look at her? You’ve ruined everything. You just stay at home and do nothing, and then this? What a useless one!”

I remembered blinking up at him, the sterile lights above flickering, and wondering how we had ended up here. When had the man who once held my hand so gently begun to crush it?

And yet, this wasn't the first betrayal. It was just the loudest.

I’d grown up believing love meant giving, bending, sacrificing. I thought if I just gave enough, they’d love me back.

Patricia and I had been born on the same day, in the same hospital, just minutes apart. A flurry of nurses, two newborn girls crying, a power outage that knocked out the identification tags. In the chaos, one frightened nurse made a mistake she’d carry for decades—and never had the courage to fix. She swapped the babies. Me and Patricia. One simple, tragic mix-up.

Patricia went home with the Monteras—an elite, old-money family known for their legacy, their wealth, their name. I, Alicia, the real daughter of Montera Group’s heir, went home with a working-class couple in the city outskirts, a quiet, simple life full of secondhand shoes, hard work, and honest love.

I never knew the difference. Not until the nurse, wracked with guilt and dying of illness, finally confessed. She called the Monteras and told them everything. Tests were done. Blood types checked. Legal papers pulled.

It was true. I was the real Montera daughter.

And Patricia… was not. But by then, it was too late.

The Monteras had raised Patricia for over two decades. She was the “golden child.” The media darling. Groomed to take over the company. Trained in etiquette, strategy, public relations. She fit in their world so seamlessly that no one—not even her—wanted to admit the truth.

They welcomed me in, yes. But not as a daughter. As a charity case. A pitiful mistake they were now obligated to clean up.

They still treated Patricia as their daughter. Still celebrated her every move, while I was tucked away like a faded memory they couldn’t throw out but couldn’t look at, either.

I was the real daughter. But never their choice.

Even Denver had chosen her. At first, I convinced myself it was just admiration, proximity, the fact that they knew each other before me. But then I overheard him.

It was at the back of the garden during a gala, just a few days after I was discharged from the hospital. He was speaking to someone I couldn’t see, his voice hushed but clear.

“I should’ve married Patricia. God, I regret marrying Alicia. She’s weak. Ordinary. No spark. Patricia would’ve made sense—imagine the power couple we could’ve been.”

I froze behind the hedge, my hand clamped over my mouth.

And then he said it.

“I’m thinking of spiking her drink at the next gala. Set the scene. Let her wake up next to a guy so everyone will think she cheated with another guy. By then, I could file for a divorce because everyone would side with me, even her family. I’ll walk away clean and then be with Patricia.”

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. He wanted me gone. That was the moment something inside me shattered—and something else, something harder, began to take its place.

I pulled myself back into the present when I heard his voice call from the kitchen.

“Babe! I made your favorite.”

I wiped my eyes quickly and stood, walking slowly toward the smell of food. I knew what was coming. He was trying again. Trying to play the perfect husband before the next blow.

I stepped into the kitchen. He stood by the stove, smiling, wearing that apron Patricia had gifted him.

"Come on, sit." He kissed my cheek like nothing had ever happened. Like we didn’t lose our child. He didn’t even mourn with me and just told me we could make another baby.

I looked down at the food and felt my stomach turn.

Mushroom risotto. That was Patricia’s favorite. Mine was steak. He knew that. Or maybe he had forgotten—because he never really paid attention.

Because I was never the one he saw. Because I was just… convenient.

Five more days. And I would never have to look at this man again.