Jane had said her apartment was being renovated,

so she “had no choice” but to stay in the guest room at the Ford residence for a few weeks.

Zayne didn’t even hesitate.

“The Dunn family has been our business partner for years,” he said, without looking at me. “It’s the least we can do.”

That’s how easily my opinion was erased—again.

Just like that, Jane Dunn moved into my home like she belonged there.

Within days, she’d made herself comfortable.

Silk pajamas in the living room, bare feet on the marble floors, her laughter echoing through the hallways that used to be mine.

When I tried to talk to Zayne about the household budget, she’d cut me off mid-sentence, sliding onto the couch beside him with a glass of wine.

“Zayne, I made that salmon recipe you love—want to try it later?”

He smiled.

He never smiled like that with me.

One night, passing by the study, I heard her voice through the door—low, teasing.

“Do you still remember, Zayne? You used to help me with my math homework.”

Zayne chuckled softly. “Of course I remember. You were hopeless at numbers. I practically did it for you.”

The warmth in his voice—

I’d never heard that tone from him, not once in our marriage.

I froze in the doorway. I didn’t want to hear more, but the sound of their laughter drew blood all the same.

I turned to leave, but Zayne’s voice caught me mid-step.

“Perfect timing, Wendy,” he said easily. “Jane suggested putting a swing in the garden. Come help us pick a design.”

Jane looked up with a little tilt of her head. “Oh yes, Wendy, what do you think? Or do you trust Zayne’s taste more?”

Her eyes sparkled like she already knew the answer.

I forced a small smile. “Anything’s fine. I still have my thesis to finish, so you two can decide.”

“A thesis?” Jane giggled. “Oh, I remember mine! Well—Zayne basically wrote it for me. You should let him help you too.”

Zayne looked at me, waiting, as if expecting gratitude.

But I wasn’t a project that needed saving anymore.

“No, thank you,” I said, my voice barely steady. “I can handle it.”

I turned before either of them could see the tears gathering in my eyes.

My chest felt tight, heavy, like someone pressing a hand over my heart.

That night, he came to bed late.

He smelled faintly of perfume—the same one Jane always wore.

My body stiffened as he lay down beside me. His arm slid around my waist, his lips brushed my neck, warm and practiced.

For three years, I’d learned to stay still. To let him find what he needed and leave.

But tonight, something inside me revolted. My skin crawled with a sadness that felt like nausea.

He noticed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Maybe I ate something bad,” I whispered.

He didn’t push. Just patted my back, like a parent soothing a restless child.

Minutes later, a voice echoed from downstairs—shaky and soft.

“Zayne! The lights went out! I think someone broke into my room!”

Jane.

Zayne was out of bed before I could speak, pulling on his shirt, rushing downstairs.

Half an hour later, he came back.

Just a blown bulb.

A stray cat in the hall.

Still, he’d run to her like she was the only thing worth protecting.

And for the first time, I realized—I wasn’t jealous.

I was simply… empty.

The next morning, I rose early. Zayne was still asleep. Jane was nowhere in sight.

I felt relief for the first time in weeks.

I picked up my things to leave for the lab—until I realized I’d forgotten my bag.

My heart skipped. Inside were the signed divorce papers and my application to the Nord Research Institute.

I turned back toward the stairs—just as his voice stopped me cold.

“Wendy, did you forget something?”

He was standing in the doorway, holding my bag. The papers were in his hand.

My stomach dropped. “Those are mine…”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he flipped through the documents.

“What’s this application to Nord? You’re going abroad?”

His tone sharpened. “When did you plan to tell me?”

“It’s—it’s for a friend,” I lied, forcing a smile.

Zayne’s gaze lingered on me. “Nord, hm? You hate the cold.”

That sentence sliced through me.

Nord was where we’d spent our honeymoon. I’d told him then that I loved it—the silence, the snow, the peace.

He’d forgotten. Or maybe, he’d never cared enough to remember.

He slipped the documents back into the bag, his voice calm again, almost too calm.

“If you really want to keep doing research, the Ford Medical Center is opening a position for a chief researcher. You can start after graduation.”

The offer sounded generous.

But it was a leash.

I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary. I already have plans.”

His eyes darkened. “Plans that don’t include me?”

I didn’t answer.

Because for the first time, I realized—my plans, my life, my future—never really had.

My supervisor approved my four-year research application to Nord within a day.

When I read the confirmation email, my hands shook—not from excitement, but relief.

For the first time in years, I saw a door open.

A way out.

A way to breathe again.

To be honest, I had tried to fix things with Zayne.

When Jane first came back, I told myself I was overthinking it. That they were just close friends.

But every smile he gave her was a knife I couldn’t pull out.

Every quiet dinner, every inside joke—they carved little holes in me until there was nothing left to hold.

And I realized something cruelly simple.

Zayne wasn’t cruel by accident.

He was cruel because he was happy.

Just not with me.

The morning I decided to leave, I woke before dawn.

The house was silent, washed in pale winter light.

I folded my clothes, my books, my life into a single suitcase.

When I walked into the living room, my eyes landed on the crystal photo frame—our wedding photo.

Zayne’s hand on my waist. My smile bright, almost foolish.

I stared for a long moment before dropping the frame into the trash.

The glass cracked, splitting our faces clean in half.

Five years of marriage, gone in one quiet click.

For a week, I threw myself into my thesis and experiments.

I didn’t answer Zayne’s calls. I didn’t go home unless I had to.

Oddly enough, silence felt like peace.

Then one evening, as I was packing up my notes, my phone buzzed.

“Wendy, are you done?” His voice was low, familiar. “I’m outside. I’ll drive you home.”

I froze. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said simply.

Half an hour later, his black car stopped at the gate.

He was in a dark suit, hair slightly messy like he’d rushed over.

For a second, I almost forgot how much he could still make my heart ache.

“Been busy lately?” he asked as we drove.

“Mm. Lots of experiments,” I murmured.

He nodded, then after a pause said, “Jane’s moving out next month. She said she doesn’t want to bother you.”

I looked out the window. “Tell her it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Zayne’s hands tightened on the wheel.

He didn’t expect that answer.

He glanced at me, as if he wanted to say something—but stopped.

So I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up nauseous.

I blamed stress, skipped breakfast, and went straight to the hospital.

But when the doctor returned with my test results, his tone was too careful.

“Mrs. Ford, congratulations. You’re two and a half months pregnant.”

The room blurred. My fingers went cold.

Two and a half months.

Before Jane came back.

For a moment, I wanted to laugh—because fate was playing a joke that wasn’t funny.

I walked out of the examination room in a daze, clutching the ultrasound photo.

That tiny heartbeat on paper—it should’ve felt like hope.

Instead, it felt like punishment.

I called Zayne’s number. It rang once—

Then I saw him.

He was walking through the hospital doors with Jane beside him.

She was wearing his jacket, her hand resting on her flat stomach.

And I heard the doctor’s voice from behind them, cheerful and oblivious:

“Miss Dunn, congratulations. Please avoid heavy lifting. The baby looks healthy.”

The sound hit harder than any slap.

Jane… was pregnant too.

My breath caught. The world tilted.

Zayne froze when he saw me, shock flashing across his face before he walked over quickly.

“Wendy? What are you doing here?”

I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Nothing. Just… a check-up.”

His gaze dropped to the folder in my hands. “You look pale. What’s wrong?”

“Headache,” I said quietly. “It’s nothing.”

He reached for me, but I stepped back, clutching my bag so tightly the ultrasound photo bent inside.

“I have to go.”

“Wendy, wait—let me explain.”

“Explain what?” My voice cracked, sharp and broken. “That she’s carrying your child too?”

He flinched. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t touch me.”

Jane’s voice broke through, trembling but soft, like a dagger wrapped in silk.

“Zayne, you promised me… Don’t let anyone find out, please…”

Her fingers curled around his sleeve.

He froze, torn between us.

That was all I needed to see.

I turned away before my tears could fall.

The wind outside was sharp, cutting into my cheeks.

I pressed a hand over my stomach and whispered to no one,

“Don’t worry, little one. We’re leaving soon.”

The city blurred around me.

And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—

I was afraid of staying.

Rick Smith, Zayne’s assistant, showed up at the lab the next afternoon.

“Mrs. Ford, Mr. Ford would like to have dinner with you tonight. Season Restaurant at seven.”

Season Restaurant.

The name hit me like a stone.

That was the place I’d waited for him on our first anniversary—five hours alone, the candles melting down to nothing.

He never showed.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

That evening, the restaurant glowed with golden light.

Zayne was already seated by the window, in a charcoal suit and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked up as I walked in, smiling faintly—like everything between us had just been a misunderstanding we could smooth over with dinner.

“Wendy.”

The way he said my name still made my heart stutter.

Even now, after everything, I still reacted like a fool in love.

He stood and pulled out my chair, his manners perfect, distant.

I sat, forcing my shaking hands into my lap.

He studied me for a moment, his voice low. “Wendy, I wanted to talk to you.”

I looked up, searching his eyes. “About what?”

He hesitated. His fingers brushed his glass. “I know I’ve neglected you lately… but about Jane and me—”

The phone on the table buzzed.

Rick’s name flashed across the screen.

Zayne answered. “Rick, what is it?”

“Sir,” Rick’s voice came through, tense, “Ms. Dunn just tried to slit her wrists.”

The world stopped.

Zayne’s chair scraped back violently. “What?! Where is she?”

He didn’t look at me again.

Not once.

As he rushed toward the door, I whispered, “Zayne, just go.”

He paused, guilt flickering across his face. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

But promises didn’t mean anything anymore.

He left.

And the moment the door closed, my body went cold. The air felt too thin to breathe.

Then—darkness.

When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was white, the air sharp with antiseptic.

A hospital room.

Rick stood near the bed, talking to a doctor.

When the doctor saw me stir, he turned. “Mrs. Ford, you’re awake.”

My hand went instinctively to my stomach.

Would he tell them?

The doctor cleared his throat. “You’re weak, you need rest. And also, you’re preg—”

Cold sweat broke out on my back.

“Please,” I whispered quickly, “don’t tell anyone. Not even him.”

The doctor looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Of course. It’s your choice.”

Just then, Rick’s phone rang again.

“Yes, sir,” he said and stepped out.

When he came back, his tone was brisk. “Mr. Ford has an emergency. He won’t be coming. He asked me to leave this for you.”

He placed a credit card on the side table.

“If you need anything, use that.”

Then he was gone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The nurses whispered outside my room, their voices slicing through the quiet.

“That Ms. Dunn is so lucky—Mr. Ford comes every day.”

“He even cooks for her himself! I heard she’s carrying his heir.”

“Three months pregnant, can you imagine? He dotes on her.”

Each word was a blade.

The wife they were talking about wasn’t Jane.

It was me.

But no one knew.

Because Zayne never let them know.

Three days later, I was discharged.

The first place I went wasn’t home.

It was the courthouse.

When the clerk handed me the stamped divorce decree, my hands trembled, but I didn’t cry.

Not anymore.

Five years of silence had already dried up all my tears.

Outside the building, snow had started to fall—light, cold, endless.

I looked up, feeling one flake melt against my skin.

I opened my phone and booked a courier. The official documents would be sent to Zayne’s office.

But I set the delivery date for three days later.

By the time he received them, I’d already be gone—

thousands of miles away, where the air didn’t taste like betrayal.

I pressed a hand over my stomach and whispered softly,

“We’ll start over, little one. Somewhere he can never find us.”