I couldn't be bothered to argue with her. In half a month, I'd be free of all this.

Grandma had promised to clear my name when the time came. What they thought of me no longer mattered.

I stared at her, expression blank, then let out a long breath and rolled over onto the bed.

"Do whatever you want."

She thought I was about to beat Noel like I used to. She tensed up, planting herself in front of him like a shield.

But when I simply turned my back and lay down, every trace of her panic evaporated.

After a long silence, she asked in disbelief, "You're... you're not angry?"

My voice was flat. "Isn't this what you've always wanted? For me to get along with him?"

She relaxed, a laugh escaping her. "You've finally learned. I knew you weren't that heartless. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

I didn't respond. I didn't look at her once, not even as they left.

A long time later, I pressed my hand to my chest.

Nothing. Not even a flutter.

So this is what letting go feels like.

Over the following days, guilt seemed to gnaw at her. She brought me gifts every few days, undeterred by my indifference, rambling about the wonderful life we'd have together.

Then she brought up the baby's one-month celebration, and her tone turned careful.

"Noel will never be able to acknowledge his own child. So I was thinking... while the baby's still too young to understand, he could attend the celebration openly. As the father."

She paused. "It would give him closure. Don't you think?"

I didn't stop what I was doing. Didn't even look up.

"I told you—do what you want. It's not my child. None of this has anything to do with me."

Her breath caught. Red crept into her eyes, fury simmering beneath. She snatched the offerings I'd prepared for John's memorial.

"Why have you been like this lately? Do you even understand what it means if he attends? It means you're accepting him as a son-in-law of the Jenner family. You never would have allowed that before."

I paused, glancing at her with mild disinterest.

"And that's a bad thing? Two months ago, when you were taking care of his needs, weren't you the one saying it was such a shame you could never give him a proper title?"

She went white. Frozen. Like a statue carved from ice.

I took the offerings back, my composure unbroken, as if nothing had happened.

She hovered at my ear, babbling excuses—how she didn't love him, how she only slept with him because she felt responsible—

My silence crushed every word.

After that day, she stopped visiting.

But Noel's social media told the whole story. Photos flooded his feed—family portraits in every style imaginable. Him, her, the baby. A perfect little unit.

The day she finished her postpartum confinement, the Jenner family threw a grand celebration for that bastard child.

Grandma told me the divorce papers would be ready tomorrow.

I went home to collect my things.

The apartment—our apartment, once warm, once ours—had been remade in Noel's taste.

Even the photo that used to sit by the TV, the one of me cradling her pregnant belly, had been replaced. Now it was her, Noel, and the baby. A new family portrait.

In the photo, Greta was smiling.

Brighter than she'd smiled on our wedding day.

In the bedroom, I started packing the clothes I'd had before the marriage.

But no matter how I searched, I couldn't find it—the suit my mother had sewn for me by hand before she passed.

I was about to call and ask when I saw it.

Noel's latest post.

He was wearing it. My mother's suit. At the celebration.

Rage erupted through me like a wave of fire.

I grabbed a cab and stormed into the banquet hall.

There he was—arm around Greta, the two of them laughing, basking in the crowd's admiration.

When Greta spotted me, guilt flickered across her face.

And beneath it, a gleam of triumph she couldn't quite hide.

She released Noel and walked toward me.

"I knew you couldn't stay away. But today is an important occasion for the child, so please don't—"

I didn't give her the chance to finish. I shoved past her and drove my fist straight into Noel's face.

"Remember your place as the side piece," I said coldly. "Don't be like your mother—that old homewrecker—always taking what belongs to others."

I pulled out a pair of scissors and slashed through his shirt.

The fabric tore with a satisfying rip, accompanied by his piercing shriek. I ripped the ruined garment off him completely.

"No clothes? Then go naked. My mother made this with her own hands. You're nothing but a mistress's spawn—I'd rather destroy it than let you wear it."

The room erupted into chaos. Grandma Evelyn, who normally guarded the family's image like a hawk, stood frozen in place—a rare moment of inaction.

Greta draped the shredded fabric over Noel's bare shoulders, glaring at me with undisguised fury.

"How can you be so vicious? In front of all these people—where is he supposed to put his face? It was just borrowing a shirt! Do you have to be this petty?"

I watched her twist right and wrong without a shred of shame. A cold laugh escaped me.

Then I raised the scissors and cut through every single fastening on the qipao she wore—the one my mother had sewn by hand.

"You've forgotten the vow you made to my mother—that you'd never betray me. That's fine." I let the scissors fall. "I haven't forgotten. What's between us is like this dress now. Severed beyond mending."

"I wish you and your little family a hundred years of happiness."

I walked out through a room of stunned faces.

The full-moon banquet didn't recover after that. Noel fainted from the humiliation, and Greta rushed him to the hospital.

Grandma Evelyn finished hosting alone, the baby in her arms.

The next morning, I collected my divorce certificate.

My phone was still filled with Greta's messages demanding an apology.

I blocked her, deleted the thread, and drove to the cemetery with the certificate in my pocket.

I'd had the headstone erected two weeks ago.

John Swanson, Beloved Son.

The grief hit fresh, raw, bottomless.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to him.

But Greta's voice cut through from behind me.

"I knew you'd be here. You always come to see the baby when you're upset. But yesterday you went too far. In front of everyone, you—"

Noel's theatrical gasp interrupted her.

"Greta! He named the grave the same as our baby! The exact same name!"

His voice pitched higher, trembling with manufactured outrage. "Bob, even if you didn't want that child, you were still going to be his father! How could you curse him to die young by giving him a dead boy's name?"

Greta frowned and stepped closer to read the headstone.

John Swanson.

Her gaze dropped to the inscription below. Only one name was listed as having erected the stone.

Father: Bob Swanson.

Not her.

The surname—his surname, not hers—sent a flicker of unease through her eyes.

But Noel's indignant ranting smothered it before it could take root.

She turned on me, eyes blazing.

"Losing that baby was a wound I carry too. But why did you do this without asking me? Are you trying to curse your own nephew to death?"

"I haven't even confronted you about humiliating Noel in public yesterday. Do you think because I love you, I'll tolerate anything?"

She pointed at the headstone. "You have ten minutes. Tell the cemetery to destroy this stone. I'll choose a proper name, and we'll erect a new one."

I looked at this woman—the same one who had sobbed so brokenly when our son died.

"And if I refuse?"

She blinked, genuine confusion flickering across her face.

A long silence.

Then her expression hardened into something cold and disappointed.

She raised her hand. Three bodyguards stepped out of the car behind her.

"Bob." Her voice was ice. "He was my child. But Noel's baby is also my child. If you insist on this..."

She met my eyes without flinching.

"Then I'll dig up his grave myself."

A pause. Then, softer—almost gentle:

"I'm sure his spirit will understand. He'd forgive me for protecting his little brother."

Even knowing her true, ugly nature, hearing that she would dig up her own child's grave—for her lover, for a name—

My chest still ached.

I watched her expression, so certain of victory. So confident that I would yield to protect our son's resting place.

I laughed.

Calmly, I reached into my jacket and pulled out the divorce certificate. I tossed it at her feet.

"I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Jenner, but I don't believe you have any say in what I name my child."

"Because as of one hour ago, we are no longer husband and wife."