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.

After returning home, I felt an unsettling sense of unfamiliarity creeping in. This place once held every precious memory of me and Tristan.

I opened the drawer and found the pregnancy report nestled within. I still remember his face the day we discovered the news—an expression of unbridled joy that couldn't have been feigned. He'd even gently traced my stomach, whispering in awe, "So… our baby is really in here? Say hello to Daddy, little one."

I had laughed, nudging him. "It's only two weeks. He's not ready to say hello just yet."

But Tristan, sweeping back a loose strand of my hair, was undeterred. "Oh, he will. First word's going to be 'Daddy'—I'm making sure of it."

He even bought a stethoscope just to hear the baby's heartbeat, leaning over with that smile of his that made my heart flutter. "Emily, look! He moved!"

I had imagined a future where our child would bring his heart back to me.

Now, all of it felt like a mirage.

I tore the pregnancy report to shreds and began to gather my personal belongings. As I rummaged through my things, I came across a stack of photos of me and Tristan.

During the early stages of my pregnancy, I had eagerly begged him to take pictures with me. My parents, though outwardly a couple, lacked genuine affection, and my childhood memories were often overshadowed by their coldness.

I wanted to create beautiful memories for our child, believing that these photos would be the perfect record of our family's happiness.

I envisioned a week-by-week collection, a total of ten photos to capture the joy of our journey together. I had always cherished them dearly.

My fingers gently brushed over the images, and I couldn't help but wonder when it was that Tristan began to show impatience with the idea of taking photos. Perhaps it wasn't the act of photographing that frustrated him, but rather me.

I tore up the photos and tossed them into the trash bin.

As I continued searching, I stumbled upon a pair of tiny shoes my best friend had given me for my unborn child. "Tiger shoes," she'd called them, saying they'd suit either a boy or girl. My hands shook as I packed them away, knowing my child would never wear them.

Just as I finished packing, my mother called. After a moment's hesitation, I answered. Her voice trembled with concern. "Emily… are you alright? Is the baby alright?"

She had been in poor health lately, and I'd kept my hospitalization from her. Her sudden concern stung, but I steadied myself. "I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry."

"Oh, my silly girl. I'm relieved. Last night, I had this horrible nightmare. I dreamt that you were swept away by a flood, and my dear grandchild was crying in the water. Then this morning, I saw on the news that parts of the city were flooded. It scared me to death! Thank goodness you and my grandson are safe."

Safe? If it hadn't been for the rescue team, I would've drowned with my unborn child in that flood.

Yet I couldn't bring myself to tell her.

"Emily," she said softly, "keep that amulet I gave you close. It's meant to keep you both safe."

I tore through the drawers, but I couldn't find the amulet anywhere.

Gripping my phone tightly, I choked out, "Mom, I… I can't find the amulet."

After my father's death, she'd returned to the countryside, saying she needed to stay close to his grave. They'd bickered endlessly in life, but now, death had separated them.

Our relationship had grown distant, too. Yet when I told her I was pregnant, she'd climbed 9,999 steps up the mountain to reach a holy temple, just to bring me that amulet.

When she placed it in my hands, she had gently touched my stomach and gently said, "I have only one wish now… for you both to be safe and happy."

Tears had stung my eyes then. "Mom, are you crazy? You're too old to be climbing up mountains!"

She'd chuckled, her smile simple. "The gods listen when the heart is sincere. Our little one will grow up safe and sound now."

I clutched the phone, muffling my sobs. Her love, always silent, had grown and spread to my child.

Safe and sound… those words felt like a cruel fantasy now.

After ending the call, I texted Tristan: [The divorce papers are on the table. Sign them as soon as possible.]

Leaving the villa that had once been our sanctuary, I took everything that belonged to me and headed straight to the hospital.

The procedure left me frail and hazy with exhaustion. I fell into a fitful sleep.

When I woke, my phone flashed with message after message from Tristan.