Sloane moved into our home, citing a relapse of a chronic illness that required absolute rest.

Julian didn't hesitate for a second.

"The Ashfords have been family friends for decades," he said, his gaze never meeting mine. "It's the least we can do."

Just like that, my opinion was dismissed.

And just like that, Sloane Ashford moved into my home and began acting like she owned the place.

Within days, she had made herself completely comfortable.

Dressed in an expensive silk robe, she padded barefoot across the cold marble floors, her light laughter echoing through the spaces that were supposed to be mine.

Whenever I tried to discuss household expenses with Julian, she would invariably appear, gliding onto the sofa beside him with a cup of herbal tea.

"Julian, I'm feeling a little weak… Can you stay with me for a while?"

He would immediately drop everything for her.

He never had that kind of patience for me.

One evening, as I passed the study, I heard her delicate voice drift through the crack in the door, laced with playful charm.

"Do you remember, Julian? When we were in Europe, you always used to walk with me."

Julian chuckled softly. "Of course, I remember. You'd always complain you were tired after a few steps. I almost always had to half-carry you back."

The indulgence in his voice was something I had never once dared to hope for in our marriage.

I froze in the doorway, unable to move, their shared laughter feeling like needles stabbing into my chest.

I turned to leave, but Julian called out to me.

"Perfect timing, Clara," he said casually. "Sloane suggested adding some new lounge chairs to the terrace. Come help us pick a style."

Sloane tilted her head, looking up at me. "Oh, yes, Clara, what do you think? Or do you trust Julian's taste more?"

Her eyes glinted with a challenge, as if she already knew the answer.

I forced a stiff smile. "Either is fine. I have my doctoral dissertation to work on, so you two can decide."

"A dissertation?" Sloane chuckled. "Oh, I remember my college days! Julian once canceled an entire business trip just to be with me. You should learn to let a man take care of you, Clara."

Julian glanced at me, as if gauging my reaction.

But I was done being a prop in his life.

"No, thank you," I said, my voice barely steady. "I can handle it myself."

I spun around before he could see the tears welling in my eyes.

My chest felt tight, as if an invisible hand were squeezing it shut.

He came to bed very late that night.

He smelled faintly of herbs—the same cloying incense Sloane always burned.

When he lay down beside me, my body instantly tensed. His arm slid around my waist, his lips brushing against my neck with a practiced familiarity.

For five years, I had learned to lie still, to let him take what he wanted and then turn away.

But tonight, something deep inside me rebelled. My skin crawled with revulsion.

He noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I think I ate something that disagreed with me," I said quietly.

He didn't press, just patted my back as if placating a petulant child.

A few minutes later, a shrill alarm blared from downstairs—sharp and urgent.

"Julian! The monitor—it's going off! I'm so scared!"

Before I could even react, Julian had bolted from the bed, grabbing his shirt and rushing from the room.

He returned half an hour later.

It was just a false alarm. A minor equipment malfunction.

And yet, he had run to her as if she were the only treasure in the world worth protecting.

For the first time, I realized I wasn't jealous.

I was just… empty.

The next morning, I woke up early. Julian was still sound asleep. Sloane's room was silent.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a sliver of space to breathe.

I gathered my things to head to the university—and then realized I’d left my tablet in the study.

My heart leaped into my throat. It contained all the emails about my application for the glacier research project in Alaska.

I turned and ran back up the stairs, but his voice suddenly sent a chill down my spine.

"Clara, did you forget something?"

He was standing at the door of the study, holding my tablet.

The screen was on.

My heart sank. "That's mine…"

He swiped across the screen, his eyes narrowing.

"What's this application for Alaska? You're planning to go to such a remote and dangerous place?"

His tone turned sharp. "When were you planning on telling me?"

"I—I was just looking up information for a friend," I lied, forcing a smile.

Julian's gaze lingered on me. "Alaska, huh? You hate the cold."

That sentence pierced me like an icicle.

Alaska. It had been my dream destination for our honeymoon. I had told him how much I loved the idea of it—the tranquility, the glaciers, the northern lights.

He had forgotten. Or perhaps, he had never cared enough to remember.

He handed the tablet back, his voice returning to a calm, almost cruel, serenity.

"If you really want to continue your research, the Sterling Foundation has an opening for a director. You can start after you graduate."

The offer sounded incredibly generous.

But it was a chain forged from gold.

I shook my head. "That won't be necessary. I already have my own plans."

His eyes darkened. "And your plans don't include me?"

I didn't answer.

Because for the first time, I realized my future—the one I was building for myself—had no room for him.

My advisor quickly approved my application for the research project in Alaska.

When I read the confirmation email, my hands were shaking—not with excitement, but with profound relief.

For the first time in years, a door had opened just for me.

An escape route.

A path that would finally let me breathe again.

To be honest, I had tried to fix my relationship with Julian.

When Sloane first returned, I told myself I was overthinking things, that they were just close friends.

But every tender look he gave her was a fresh cut to my soul.

Every inside joke only they understood was another wound, leaving me bleeding internally until I couldn't bear it anymore.

Then I realized a cruel, simple truth.

Julian's indifference wasn't unintentional.

He was cold to me because he was so unburdened and happy with her.

His happiness just had nothing to do with me.

On the morning I decided to leave for good, I woke before dawn.

The entire penthouse was dead silent, bathed in the pale New York morning light.

I packed my clothes, my books, my entire life into a few suitcases.

As I took one last look around the cold, opulent apartment, I opened my photo gallery and permanently deleted every digital picture of us together.

One by one, the images dissolved into nothing.

Five years of marriage, erased in a few clicks.

For the next week, I used my upcoming doctoral dissertation defense as an excuse to immerse myself in my studies.

I didn't answer Julian's calls. I didn't go home unless I absolutely had to.

Strangely, the silence brought me a peace I hadn't felt in years.

Then one evening, as I was organizing my notes, my phone rang.

"Clara, are you done for the night?" His voice was low and familiar on the other end of the line. "I'm downstairs. I'll take you home."

I froze. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted simply.

Half an hour later, his black Bentley pulled up in front of the library.

He was wearing a dark suit, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he'd rushed over from a meeting.

For a moment, a familiar ache spread through my chest.

"Been busy?" he asked as he drove.

"Mmm. The dissertation defense is coming up," I answered vaguely.

He nodded, then paused. "Sloane is moving into a private apartment with medical support next month. She said she doesn't want to bother you anymore."

I stared out the window at the glittering cityscape. "Tell her it doesn't matter. I don't care."

Julian's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

He hadn't expected that answer.

He glanced at me, seeming to want to say something—but in the end, he remained silent.

So I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, I woke up to a wave of intense nausea.

I assumed it was just stress and went straight to the hospital without breakfast.

But when the doctor returned with my lab results, his expression was far too careful.

"Ms. Hayes, congratulations. You're ten weeks pregnant."

The room began to spin. My fingertips went ice-cold.

Ten weeks.

Before Sloane came back.

For a split second, I wanted to laugh at the absurd, cruel joke fate had just played on me.

I stumbled out of the exam room in a daze, the flimsy ultrasound photo clutched in my hand.

The tiny, flickering heartbeat on the paper—it should have been a symbol of hope.

Instead, it felt like a punishment.

I took out my phone and dialed Julian's number. It rang once—

And then I saw him.

He was with Sloane, right outside the obstetrics and gynecology building.

Sloane was clinging to his arm, her face pale, while Julian murmured words of comfort to her.

Julian froze when he saw me, a flash of shock on his face, before striding over.

"Clara? What are you doing here?"

I forced a humorless smile. "Nothing. Just... here for a check-up."

His gaze fell to the folder in my hands. "You look pale. What's wrong?"

"A headache," I said softly. "It's nothing."

Sloane tugged on his arm, her voice weak and tearful. "Julian, I feel so sick..."

He reached out to steady me, but I took a step back, clutching the folder so tightly that the ultrasound photo inside creased.

"I have to go."

"Clara, wait—let me explain."

"Explain what?" My voice was sharp, brittle—unrecognizable even to me. "That she's feeling under the weather, too? That you had to personally escort her to the OB-GYN?"

He flinched as if my words had stung him. "It's not—"

"Don't," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Don't touch me."

That single moment of hesitation—the conflict warring in his eyes as he stood between the two of us—was all the answer I needed.

I turned and fled the hospital before the tears could fall.

The biting New York wind scraped against my cheeks, raw and painful.

I pressed a hand to my lower abdomen and whispered to the empty air, "Don't worry, little one. We'll leave soon, to a place where no one can ever bother us."

The city around me blurred.

For the first time, I wasn't afraid of being alone—I was afraid of staying.