I was pregnant. On my way to deliver documents to Tristan Goldberg, a flash flood struck. Desperate, I dialed his number, praying he’d answer.

After a few rings, the call connected. But instead of Tristan, a woman’s voice answered. "Tristan, whose number is this? Do you want to answer it?"

There was a brief pause, and then Tristan’s voice, cold and indifferent, cut through. "It’s just my maid. Ignore it. Hang up."

And just like that, the call disconnected.

Staring at the torrent rising around me, my pulse quickened. I texted him, begging for him to send a rescue team.

Minutes passed as the waters climbed to my waist, churning and relentless. Then, a message from Tristan finally appeared.

Tristan: [What kind of ridiculous story are you making up now?]

Tristan: [Emily, do you think you're eighteen, playing these childish games? I want that document in my hands within thirty minutes, or we're getting divorced.]

A surge of terror shot through me as I looked up, catching sight of a heavy branch snapping loose and crashing down. In an instant, everything went dark.

The next morning, Tristan Goldberg's call jolted me awake. His tone was sharp, dripping with irritation. "A whole day and night gone, and you still couldn't deliver one file? Do you have any idea how close I was to losing that deal because of you?!"

But he didn't know that I had lost something far more precious—our unborn child.

I traced my hand over my now-flat stomach and calmly replied, "Let's get a divorce."

For a moment, the years flashed before me—the decade I'd spent with him, from when I was just fifteen, believing time would change everything, believing one day he'd love me back.

We had grown up together, after all; childhood sweethearts, or so I thought.

When he picked up car racing, I threw myself into it too. When he took up basketball, I followed, trailing him around the court as his self-appointed ball girl, enduring everyone's laughs, desperate for a place by his side.

I had thought if I could just keep up, if I could just stay close enough, he'd eventually see me.

Then, my father fell gravely ill, and in his final moments, he entrusted me to Tristan. With a warm smile, Tristan clasped my father’s hand, promising to take good care of me.

And he kept that promise, in those early days. He'd bend down to tie my shoes, mark my period on his phone, pull me into his arms to soothe me when insecurity crept in, whispering, "I'm here. Don't worry."

Back then, I was so happy, so sweetly naive, believing we would be together forever.

But then, my father passed away, and we married.

That's when things began to unravel.

His work consumed him, the pressures of merging two companies pulling him away, making him grow distant. Even at night, during our most intimate moments, his mind often seemed elsewhere.

And eventually, I learned the truth. His mind wasn't just elsewhere; it was with someone else.

She'd come back—the one who'd been his unreachable dream in his youth, the one who had cast a long shadow over us all these years. Faye Presley, his first love, had returned to the country. She'd even secured a position as a secretary in his company.

At first, he played it down, wrinkling his nose as if he hardly cared. "Don't worry about her," he'd say with an air of feigned indifference. "She's just back in the country and needed a job. I'm curious to see what she can actually do."

But I saw it—the way he pressed his lips to suppress a smile he couldn't quite hide. And soon enough, I started to hear about her almost every day, slipping into our conversations whether I wanted it or not.

He often complained to me, saying that Faye—once the epitome of grace and intellect—had become clumsy and couldn’t even make a decent cup of coffee, unlike mine, which suited his taste perfectly.

Whenever he came home, her name slipped into the conversation. He’d scoff about her fashion choices, saying she looked ridiculous in that pale yellow dress she wore today, or mutter that she’d put on weight, and how unbecoming that was for someone in an administrative role.

I didn't want to hear any of that.

I quietly gathered the dishes and headed toward the kitchen.

He loosened his tie, eyeing me with a frown. "You know, since you became a housewife, you've really lost any sense of fun."

I paused mid-step. "Then tell me," I said, turning back to him. "Who’s fun now? Faye?"

The air grew tense.

He kicked his chair back, frustration clear on his face. "You're so paranoid," he snapped before storming upstairs.

But I knew better—his anger was a cover for his guilt.

When I ended the call, my phone buzzed with messages from him, ping after ping.

Tristan: [Are you serious with this talk about divorce? Seriously? Over a stupid document?]

Tristan: [Can't you be a little more forgiving, hmm? Do you know what Faye almost went through just to get that document...]

It seemed he had completely forgotten. He was the one who first mentioned divorce.

And it had been me all along, playing the fool, holding onto the weak end of this marriage.

In the past, I would've swallowed my pride, begged, apologized, and patched things up, no matter how much it tore at me inside. I'd just bottle it up, endure, convince myself I could live with it.

But now? There was no need anymore.

On the day I was discharged, I went to the front desk to handle the paperwork and found myself face-to-face with an unexpected scene: Tristan was there, gently supporting Faye as she leaned on him.

"Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant sooner?" he asked her softly, his gaze fixed on her with a tenderness I hadn't seen in years. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have let you take on that project."

Faye let out a playful little laugh, then turned and noticed me standing there. Her eyes widened in feigned surprise. "Oh… Emily... I didn't see you." She gently tugged on his sleeve, an unmistakably intimate gesture.

His eyes flicked over to me, and he took a subtle step forward, as though shielding her from me. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a voice tinged with annoyance, as if my presence was some unnecessary intrusion.

His concern for her was as blatant as it was painful to witness.

"Please don't misunderstand," Faye said softly, peeking out from behind him like a timid, innocent creature. "I wasn't feeling well, and Tristan insisted on accompanying me to the hospital. That's all."

In my first trimester, I'd suffered relentless nausea. I had practically begged him to come to the hospital with me for checkups, but he'd always been too busy. Yet here he was, going out of his way to be with her.

But my child is gone now. The need to explain, to argue—it drained away. All I wanted was to leave. "Excuse me," I said icily, "I have things to take care of."

Perhaps the coldness in my voice was too obvious. Tristan, typically so reserved, frowned and stepped in front of me, his jaw clenched. "Emily, throwing a tantrum like this is ridiculous! First, you refused to deliver that file. And now, this stony look—who exactly is it for?"

He was used to my compliance, my willingness to smooth things over. He probably expected me to back down, to soothe his ego. Instead, I simply brushed his hand away.

My face, weary and pallid, showed only detachment. An ache deep in my abdomen reminded me of the child that was no longer there.

In the days I'd been in the hospital, he'd called me only a few times. When I didn't pick up, he hadn't followed up, hadn't even left a message. He was a man too used to having his way, so secure in my devotion that he couldn't fathom the idea of me ever leaving.

My talk of divorce was just another whim, a way to get his attention—at least, that's what he believed. He thought two missed calls were more than enough effort on his part.

He'd never expect this resolve from me now.

Gripping my wrist tightly, he leaned in, his voice dangerously low. "Emily, my patience is not limitless. I admit I've been neglectful, but do you know the trouble you caused the company by not delivering that file?"

He took a breath, as if trying to sound reasonable. "Faye and I have been working day and night these past few days... because of you."

A part of me—an old, almost forgotten part—might have believed him before. But lying there in that hospital room, I'd seen Faye's social media updates.

One particular post had caught my eye: Who'd have thought these hands, which earned millions, would one day be washing vegetables and cooking soup just for me?

Along with the caption was a photo—a man's hand wearing a very familiar watch.

The very same watch I'd given to Tristan as a birthday gift.

And while I lay in that sterile room, grieving the loss of our child, he'd been in her home, cooking for her. The sheer absurdity of it all stung, sharper than I'd ever thought possible.

I pulled my hand free, feeling the emptiness of my womb twist with pain, and laughed bitterly. "So, did your hard work lead you to her bed as well?"

Faye's face went deathly pale, swaying as though she might collapse at any moment. "Emily," she said in a trembling voice. "How could you say that…?"

At once, Tristan reached out to support her, his voice soft and coaxing. "Faye, you're pregnant. Please, don't let this upset you."

The two of them looked like a picture-perfect couple, perfectly matched and harmonious.

Watching Tristan's gentle, protective expression tore into me, igniting a raw, familiar ache.

During the first three months of my own pregnancy, I'd been so cautious, moving with slow, deliberate steps even as we shopped for baby essentials together. And how had he responded? With a dismissive sneer. "I've never met anyone as delicate as you," he'd scoffed, exasperated by my slower pace.

Then there was the day he'd asked me to bring him some important documents. A raging storm swept through the city, lightning crackling against the sky, as I called him to say I felt unwell, asking if someone else could make the trip instead.

His voice, sharp with annoyance, rang through the line. "You're usually so healthy—what could possibly be wrong? Or are you just jealous of Faye again? Emily, must you really be this petty?"

In his eyes, I was nothing but small-minded and hypersensitive. And yet, one gentle word, a single apology, and I would forgive him and fold under his demands. "Emily, please. Just bring me the documents—I need you."

Terrified that my refusal might somehow jeopardize the company, that my father's legacy might go up in smoke, I buried my own frustrations, combing through the house to find the files before braving the storm.

Unluckily, as I crossed through a low-lying area, the floodwaters broke through the dike, sending torrents of water surging around me. Protecting my stomach, I called him for help. He showed no concern at all.

Even afterward, his only reaction was to criticize me for failing to deliver the file on time. Not once did he ask if I’d made it home safely that night, or if the baby was unharmed. Lowering my gaze, I felt the sharp ache of that painful procedure flash through me.

Faye was the first to break the silence, her eyes shimmering with red-rimmed tears. "Emily, I'm so sorry if I somehow gave you the wrong impression. Really, Tristan only came to the hospital with me because he was worried about my health."

Her voice was soft, cautious, as if stepping carefully around shards of glass. "If you're upset, I'll apologize to you right here, if that's what you want."

She had the kind of looks that made people instinctively want to protect her—delicate and dignified, she seemed as if a single gust of wind could sweep her away. No wonder Tristan was so mesmerized by her from the very start.

I met her gaze and replied, my voice calm but cutting. "Apologize? Alright then."

Faye blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Emily…" she murmured, confusion etched into her features.

I looked over at Tristan, noting the faint flicker of irritation in his eyes, and spoke coldly. "If you're really so sincere about apologizing, then why don't you get down on your knees? Isn't that the least you could do to show some true remorse?"

The old me would've turned the other cheek, pretending her countless jabs were beneath my notice. But today, I didn't feel like playing the saint.

Her eyes widened, her lashes damp and trembling as if I'd dealt her an unbearable humiliation. Biting her lip, she forced the words out. "Fine… if that's what it takes…"

Tristan's face twisted with disbelief. "Emily, this is absolutely absurd!"

Then, turning back to Faye, his tone softened into a hushed murmur, "Faye, ignore her. I'm here—no one will make you do anything as long as I'm by your side."

He shot me a warning glance.

A single teardrop landed on the back of his hand, right in his line of sight, and she looked up at him with those hurt, vulnerable eyes, simultaneously fragile and defiant. "It's fine, Tristan. If Emily wants me to kneel, I'll do it. All I ask is that she no longer questions your loyalty after this."

If he wasn't my husband, I might actually be moved by this little performance. But he was my husband. And he was the reason I had lost my child. The bitterness seared through me, deeper than any guilt or shame she could elicit.

"Faye, no. Get up. You're pregnant," Tristan coaxed.

"Ah!" She cried out suddenly, clutching her belly with a tremor. "Tristan, my stomach hurts. Do you think… is the baby alright?"

Tristan's entire demeanor changed, his ruthless business persona discarded as he bent to her side, frantic. "Where does it hurt? Here?" His hands hovered over her stomach, his voice now dripping with tender concern. "Don't be afraid—I'm here. I'll make sure nothing happens to our baby."

The words hung heavily in the air, a knife twisting into the heart of my already battered soul.

Both Faye and I froze. Though I had expected it, hearing him admit it with his own lips was like an invisible fist clenching around my heart, wringing out whatever hope remained until nothing was left but a raw, aching void.

Faye stammered, glancing at me with wide eyes. "Tristan, please… don't…"

But Tristan had had enough of pretending. Without so much as a glance my way, he lifted her into his arms, looking down at me with a glacial glare. "You've truly disappointed me, Emily."

And as they turned away, I caught the look in Faye's eyes—a victorious, smug little smile, meant only for me.