Even if I need sleeping pills just to fall asleep each night, I’ve held onto my resolve not to mention divorce again.

My child was the only reason I stayed in the Sinclair family.

But now, he has destroyed even that final thread of hope with his own hands.

After I calmed down, my mother-in-law took me home.

She gently urged me to wash up, rest, and try not to think about anything else.

So I did, as she said, she said—showered, changed, and prepared to sleep.

But when I stepped out of the bathroom, I froze.

Ethan was sitting on the edge of my bed, his face cold and filled with contempt.

“I didn’t expect you to go this far, Hannah,” he said, sneering. “Even using my mother to make me come back? I really underestimated you.”

I knew he was referring to what his mother had said to him.

In the past, I might’ve screamed, argued, or broken down like a madwoman.

Even though he always looked at me like I was mentally unstable, like I disgusted him.

But now, I no longer have the strength to care.

To him, Lily’s death wasn’t a tragedy—it was a relief.

He didn’t mourn her; he felt freed by her absence.

I ignored him completely and walked to the bed, pulling back the quilt.

I never expected that, the moment I touched it, he would suddenly press me down, grabbing my wrist with force.

My body stiffened, heart racing. I started to struggle. “Ethan, let me go!”

He chuckled coldly. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Why pretend now?”

His eyes were devoid of warmth—only cold ridicule lingered in them.

Then, without warning, he leaned in and bit my shoulder.

As he got closer, a faint scent of jasmine drifted toward me.

It wasn’t mine.

It was someone else’s perfume—another woman’s.

Pain seared my shoulder, but worse was the wave of nausea that rose from my chest.

The scent, the force, the humiliation—it was overwhelming.

“Ethan, stop! Let me go!” I cried, struggling harder, pushing him away.

But the more I resisted, the more excited he seemed.

When I felt him begin to tug at my nightgown, my whole body trembled.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted the alarm clock on the bedside table.

In that moment of desperation, I grabbed it, gritted my teeth, and hurled it at him.

It hit his forehead squarely.

He staggered back with a groan of pain.

Clutching the alarm clock in my hand like a weapon, I screamed, voice shaking with fear and fury, “Get out! Get out!”

In the dim light, his expression darkened even further.

His entire presence radiated hostility—something dangerous and suffocating.

“Fine,” he said coldly. “But remember—you’re the one who said this. Don’t come crying to my mom tomorrow saying I didn’t fulfill my ‘husbandly duties.’”

He dragged out the word “husband,” dripping with mockery, like a cruel reminder of how I ended up with him in the first place.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to speak.

He sneered again and finally left.

Only after he was gone did I begin to breathe normally again.

But the tears wouldn’t stop.

They slipped down silently, one after another.

Lily…

Mommy misses you so much.

I cried quietly, remembering her sweet smile, her laugh, her tiny hands wrapped around my fingers.

The next morning, I got up and began packing Lily’s things.

There were so many little dresses she never even got to wear.

Some still had the tags on.

Most were expensive, gifts from my mother-in-law.

It felt wrong to keep them.

So I decided to donate them to children in remote, underprivileged mountain areas—in Lily’s name.

Not long after, I received a message from Jessica—Ethan’s first love.

She sent a photo of a B-ultrasound and wrote:

“You couldn’t keep A Nian even with a child. Now I’m pregnant with his baby too. What do you think, Hannah? If I ask him to divorce you, will he say yes right away?”

I stared at the message for a long time.

My heart, surprisingly, felt nothing.

I quietly saved Jessica’s message, but didn’t reply.

Not long after, Ethan saw the donations and messaged me.

“Why did you give away so many skirts? Aren’t those for your daughter?”

I read the message but didn’t respond.

Then he added, “Her birthday is coming up. I’ll have someone send over gifts. Just don’t let her bother me.”

Every year on Lily’s birthday, he’d find some excuse not to come home.

Lily never understood why her father didn’t like her. She’d always tug at my hand, begging me to take her to see him.

I could never resist her soft voice and pleading eyes. So I took her to his company—just so she could catch a glimpse of him from afar.

We never dared to get close. We stood outside, hoping he might notice us.

And he did. A few times.

But there was never a smile—only annoyance and cold indifference in his eyes.

Thinking of how Lily was gone, my heart suddenly tightened.

I picked up my phone and replied, “No. She won’t bother you anymore.”

After that, I didn’t respond to any of his messages.

To my surprise, the man who hated going home actually returned that night.

When he stepped inside and didn’t receive the usual warm welcome, he frowned. “Why are you alone?”

I was sitting on the sofa, carefully placing all of Lily’s photos into a small suitcase.

Hearing his question, my hand paused briefly before I calmly said, “I’m not alone.”

Lily’s urn was still in her room. In my heart, she was still with me.

He assumed the child was asleep and didn’t question it. He casually placed a gift box on the sofa and said indifferently, “Last time was a punishment. Auntie’s generous—she’s not holding a grudge. This is a gift she bought. Take the child to apologize next time.”

His tone was patronizing, like he was doing us a favor.

But I couldn’t understand—was it wrong for a child to call her father?

I looked up at him, cold and composed. “No. I’ll buy whatever Lily wants.”

He scoffed, eyes filled with disdain. “Hannah, everything you eat, use—hasn’t it all come from the Sinclair family?”

His words pierced me like a knife.

Lily was born prematurely and was diagnosed with congenital heart disease right after birth. I gave up my job to care for her.

To avoid asking him for money, I took online freelance work and quietly saved every cent.

By now, I’d saved enough to cover a heart transplant when she came of age.

But she never made it that far.

She left me before she even had the chance to grow up.

My eyes dimmed. I lowered my gaze and said, voice steady, “Don’t worry. I’ll never use your money again.”

We are divorced now. There was nothing between us anymore.

He didn’t believe me. He tossed a secondary card on the coffee table and said with a hint of self-righteousness, “Whether you need it or not, she’s still part of the Sinclair bloodline. Don’t embarrass the family.”

In five years of marriage, it was the first time he had ever offered me a bank card.

I didn’t know what he was trying to prove, but it no longer mattered.

I didn’t look up. I continued quietly sorting Lily’s belongings.

My silence wasn’t the reaction he expected. He frowned, clearly annoyed.

“Hannah, don’t push it. I’m trying to be civil here, but you—”

Before he could finish, a sudden thought struck me.

I looked up and said flatly, “Be at North Shore Memorial Hall at eight tomorrow morning.”

If I told him that tomorrow was Lily’s funeral, he’d scoff at the timing, call it bad luck, and absolutely refuse to go.

Ethan opened his mouth, about to speak, but his phone rang at that moment.

He glanced at the screen, saw the caller ID, and answered without hesitation. “Jessica, what’s wrong?”

The coldness in his expression disappeared in an instant. His voice, just seconds ago emotionless, turned warm and indulgent.

“Ethan,” Jessica’s soft, spoiled tone came clearly through the receiver, “I have a prenatal check-up tomorrow. Can you come with me?”

He was standing close to me, so I could hear every word she said—so intimate, so familiar, as if they had known each other for a lifetime. It was the kind of tone I used to speak to him with, back when I believed I mattered to him.

Ethan glanced in my direction for a brief second, but there was no guilt in his eyes, only the habitual cold detachment. Then, without missing a beat, he replied, “Okay. Rest well tonight. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow.”

Watching him speak to another woman with such tenderness, I stood still, stunned for a moment. A wave of memories came crashing down.

Back when I was pregnant with Lily, I had hoped—naively—that he would share even a small part of my excitement and nervousness. But he rarely came home. On the few occasions he did, I timidly asked him if he could accompany me to my prenatal check-up, thinking he might at least show some concern for the child.

Instead, he scoffed. “Other women go by themselves. Who do you think you are? A princess?” His tone was sarcastic and sharp. “You act like you’re the heiress of some noble family. Get over yourself.”

That day, his words cut deeper than any knife. But what hurt most wasn’t the insult—it was the contrast. Because not long before, he’d stood proudly behind me in front of others and declared, “She’s the daughter-in-law of the Sinclair family. Anyone who lays a hand on her will be going against the whole Sinclair family. If you want to bully her, be prepared to deal with me.”

I had believed him then, wholeheartedly. I thought I had married someone who would protect me.

But he had forgotten those words. And I had learned the hard way not to remind him.

I didn’t respond. I simply turned and went back into the room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze linger on me. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes, something unsettled—perhaps the vague realization that something precious was slipping through his fingers.

The next morning, my mother-in-law called to ask what time I’d be going to North Shore Memorial Hall.

By then, I was already on the high-speed train, carrying a suitcase filled with Lily’s belongings—her toys, her favorite books, and the clothes she never had a chance to wear.

When my mother-in-law realized I had left, she fell silent for a moment. Then she spoke again, her voice hoarse, barely holding back tears. “Take care of yourself, dear. You may be leaving, but we’re still here for you.”

I thanked her quietly. After we hung up, I removed my SIM card and threw it in the nearest trash bin.

The moment I left the Sinclair family, I knew—I was never going back.

Later that morning, my in-laws arrived at North Shore Memorial Hall dressed in solemn black. My father-in-law had rushed back from overseas the moment he heard about Lily’s death, leaving behind his business obligations without hesitation.

His grief was deep, but it was his fury that burned brighter. When he realized Ethan hadn’t shown up, he exploded.

Unable to bear it, he ordered someone to locate his son and stormed off in fury.

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Ethan was still with Jessica, accompanying her for her check-up. He didn’t expect to see his father barge in, face livid with rage.

“Dad?” He stood up, startled. “Why are you here—”

Before he could finish, his father slapped him across the face in full view of the hospital staff and patients.

“You heartless bastard! Your daughter is gone, and on the day of her funeral, you’re here playing house with another woman? Do you even remember you have a wife? A daughter?”

The slap echoed. Ethan’s ears rang, and the world tilted around him.

He blinked, disoriented. “What did you just say? Who... who died?”