Julia's POV

Lila’s first birthday should’ve been a celebration.

Instead, it became the day I decided to end my marriage.

The clown was twisting balloon animals while the band had launched into its third round of 'The Wheels on the Bus,' and Adrian Callahan, my husband, was at the buffet station, whispering something to the caterer with a little too much urgency.

I didn’t think much of it until a server appeared carrying a small, steaming bowl of chicken soup.

It wasn’t on the menu.

There was no label—just a special request.

The server walked past our guests, past my parents, and stopped in front of Camille Quinn.

Adrian’s assistant.

Not a guest. Not family. Just her.

My husband had arranged a bowl of soup just for her.

No fanfare. No explanation.

Just a silent gesture, like she was the only one that mattered.

I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped out onto the patio, pulled out my phone, and texted my lawyer friend.

[Draft the divorce papers. I’m done.]

——

Later that evening, when I handed the divorce papers to Adrian, he released an incredulous chuckle, grasping the documents as if they were some absurd joke.

“Out of a hundred dishes served,” he scoffed, “you zeroed in on the one for Camille? Can’t you chill out with your damn possessiveness for once, Julia?”

I looked straight at him.

“Say whatever you want,” I said. “I’m divorcing you.”

When I walked back into the event hall, the air felt colder, tighter.

Camille Quinn was sitting in my seat. My husband’s right-hand side.

She wore a silk gown in a pale champagne tone—the same shade as Adrian’s tie. Then, she looked up at him and smiled like she already belonged there.

Around me, whispers crept like slow poison.

“Camille and the boss look good together.”

“They’re always working late. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already living together.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

They already slid beneath my skin, sharp and effortless, until I could barely breathe.

And when Camille finally turned and saw me, she blinked with just enough surprise to make it believable, as if she hadn’t rehearsed the entire moment in her head a hundred times.

In a sweet and gentle voice, she apologized, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Callahan. I spilled red wine on your dress.

"Geez, I’m such a klutz,” she murmured, appearing pitiful.

Then, Camille turned to me, batted her eyes, and asked, “You’re not mad, are you?”

However, before I could say a word, Adrian cut in, "I know exactly the kind of person you are, Julia. Don't make a scene here."

Right there, he shifted his attention to Camille and urged her gently, "Go sit at Table 3. I had them bring you some chicken soup."

And just like that, everyone praised Adrian for being thoughtful.

“She said her stomach hurt, and Sir Adrian ordered her chicken soup right away.”

“She had a blister, and he even put a band-aid on her himself.”

“His wife must be so lucky, having such a thoughtful husband.”

I smiled. Or at least, it looked like a smile.

What no one saw were my nails digging deep into the skin of my palm.

Adrian used to hate incompetence more than anyone I’d ever met.

He once fired an assistant just for printing an extra nameplate on the spot, no second chance.

But this level of patience? I hadn’t seen it in years.

“Today’s about my daughter,” Adrian said coolly, brushing off the guest's praises. “Let’s not make it about me.”

He didn’t bother to explain. Not to me. Not to anyone.

Just before the ceremony was about to start, I stood to adjust something near the stage, and Adrian reached out to stop me.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said casually. “I’ve already picked someone to be Lila’s godmother.”

I froze.

Before I could ask who, Camille stepped forward and hung a little safety charm around Lila’s neck like she’d been waiting for her cue.

Then she leaned down, pressed a kiss to my daughter’s cheek, and smiled. “From now on, I’m Lila’s mommy too.”

She looked up at me while saying it, her eyes fixed on mine. There was no mistaking it.

That wasn’t a smile.

It was a challenge.

The rest of the ceremony moved fast, the way things do when no one wants to linger.

Just as the ceremony was wrapping up, Adrian cut in again, loud enough to turn a few heads. "Traditionally, the baby gives a little bow to her godmother to seal the deal. Lila should do that for Camille."

"You want her to bow?" I turned to him, my brows drawing tight. “She’s one. A literal baby. Kneeling could hurt her—suffocation, brain trauma.”

Adrian’s voice turned on a dime, sharp and accusatory. “Do you ever think before you talk? Is it that she can’t or that you’re still bitter about who we picked for godmother?”

Before I could respond, Camille cut in, all soft smiles and false humility. “It's fine, Adrian. I’ve already given her a gift. That’s blessing enough.”

The man who had been arguing with me a second ago instantly calmed down.

“Mind if I say a few words to bless Lila?” Camille asked, sweet as syrup.

With Adrian's silent approval, the microphone was handed to her.

Right then, my gaze swept across the table and caught sight of a wine glass, half-full, red liquid glinting under the lights.

Camille lifted the mic.

Her face was serene, and her tone was nearly playful as she stated, “I heard Lila was conceived through IVF.”

She let the sentence hang, then smiled. “Now that I’m looking at her more closely, she really does seem a little unnatural. IVF babies tend to be more delicate. It must be tough on Mrs. Callahan, caring for her.”

Another pause. Another smile.

“Oh, and does Lila even know she came from a lab?”

'How dare she...' I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

As my patience wore thin, I stepped off the stage and slapped her across the face.

Camille's head snapped to the side, her eyes filled with tears.

Adrian's face turned icy.

He then stepped forward. Another slap followed.

Adrian said flatly, “That one was for Camille. Consider us even.”

Julia's POV

After saying that, Adrian scooped Camille up in his arms and walked right out of the event hall.

The room turned so quiet that it felt like even the air stopped moving.

I forced a polite smile. "Everyone, please enjoy your meal."

When I got home, the left side of my face was still faintly burning. Once I got Lila to sleep, I sank onto the couch.

My cheeks were wet, and my skin felt taut from dried tears. It was as if someone had crammed a dozen lemons into my chest and was beating on them with both fists.

Everything inside me ached, swollen, and stretched too far. Even breathing hurt.

It was late into the night when I finally heard the door creak open. Adrian stepped inside. He remained silent at first, slowly reaching for my face as if he had any right to do so.

I turned away.

“I was wrong, Julia,” Adrian whispered, kneeling at my feet and pressing his cheek lightly to my knee, like that would soften anything.

“But come on, you hit her first. Camille was drunk. She said some stupid crap. How could you take it seriously?”

He tried to smile, like we were in the middle of some harmless misunderstanding. Then he stood, leaned in, and brushed his nose against mine.

“Can you forgive me?”

The moonlight cast a glow across the floor.

That’s when I saw it.

A faint lipstick mark, just below the collar of his shirt.

The color was soft, but the message was loud and clear.

I picked up the divorce agreement from the coffee table and held it out.

Then I said calmly, “Adrian, let’s get divorced.”

“Divorce?” He blinked, stunned, like he hadn’t seen this coming from a mile away.

Adrian snatched the papers and started flipping through them like they were written in another language. When he realized I wasn’t bluffing, he threw them right at my face. The divorce papers struck my chest and fluttered to the floor.

Adrian’s voice exploded across the room. “Are you insane, Julia? Lila just turned one, and you’re already trying to divorce me? You think divorce is something you just say and boom, it’s done?”

He started pacing, hands running through his hair, as if trying to pull the right words out of his scalp.

“I know I screwed up today. I hit you. But you think that just came outta nowhere?”

He turned to me then, eyes flashing, not with regret, but with justification.

“I already apologized! What more do you want?”

He threw his arms up in frustration, like my silence was the real betrayal. “Stop acting like some spoiled damn princess!”

He pointed a finger at me now, sharp, jabbing. “Seriously, grow up. You’re a mom now. Keeping the family together should come first!"

Adrian kept going, voice rising with every word. He didn’t even notice the tears running down my face, not once. My cheek was still sore from the earlier incident. A staple on a folder had scraped it, and now the salt in my tears made it sting all over again.

Adrian reached for his wallet out of reflex and then froze halfway, like someone had hit pause on him.

I looked him dead in the eye as I asked, “You gave your last band-aid to Camille, didn’t you? And you ordered her chicken soup too.”

He straightened up a little, trying to keep cool.

“So what? That doesn’t mean anything. You’re really divorcing me over a Band-Aid and a bowl of chicken soup? You’re blowing this way out of proportion, Julia!"

His voice was too loud.

Lila’s wail came sharp from the bedroom, echoing through the walls and cutting straight into my nerves.

Adrian winced, already annoyed, his brow folding with frustration.

I turned to him and asked quietly, “Do you even know where her bottle and formula are?”

That stopped him cold.

Adrian blinked in silence, unsure of what to say.

Of course, he didn’t know. Ever since the baby was born, Adrian believed taking care of Lila was my job. It had nothing to do with him as a father.

Right then, I grabbed the bottle, walked toward the bedroom, and paused at the door.

Then I turned back. I picked up a pen and signed the divorce papers.

As I handed him the papers, I said flatly, “You should sign it, too. If not, I’ll file for divorce on the grounds of infidelity. And if it gets to that point, you won’t get a single benefit out of this marriage.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I reached out and touched the face I had once loved so deeply.

“Your mouth still tastes like the red wine Camille drank tonight. What happened between you two? Hard to say, isn’t it?”

After settling Lila and getting her back to sleep, I came out to find the living room empty.

Adrian was gone.

The divorce papers were shredded and scattered all over the trash like confetti after a war. Even the pen I’d used to sign them had been snapped clean in two, as if breaking it would somehow erase the decision.

On the coffee table sat a designer shopping bag, almost camouflaged by the chaos around it. The same one Adrian had been hiding behind his back when he walked in.

Inside was a neatly folded, limited-edition cashmere baby throw.

I stared at it for a long time, unable to look away.

My chest tightened, and slowly, my gaze dimmed.

Julia's POV

Ever since I became a mom, every gift Adrian gave me was for the baby, every single one. Bit by bit, he was boxing me into one identity: Lila’s mom, and nothing more.

My phone buzzed with two simultaneous alerts. One was from the law firm I’d reached out to earlier:

[We heard you took maternity leave—didn’t expect to hear from you.]

[We believe your return will make us stronger.]

[Looking forward to working together.]

I replied with a professional thank-you, closed the chat, and barely had time to set my phone down before another notification popped up.

It was a friend request, with just five words:

[It’s me, Camille Quinn.]

I accepted, and instantly her message appeared, not text, just a photo. A towel dotted with blood, sheets soaked through with moisture. No explanation needed.

A fresh college graduate, with nothing to her name, and she’d already given Adrian everything she could.

Young women like her, so fearless and headstrong, always think they can survive the flame, moths drawn to fire.

In a daze, I seemed to catch a glimpse of my younger self.

When I was sixteen, Adrian and I were the only two from our small town accepted into a prestigious high school. His parents, both middle school teachers, were so excited that they hosted a celebratory party for three consecutive days.

Me?

I didn’t even have the nerve to tell my father.

He was already half-drunk, parked on the front steps with a few empty bottles, sipping beer and toasting with the town matchmaker.

“Damn it,” I remember him saying, “that dead woman Rachel only left me this useless money-drainer. Good thing she takes after her mother. Maybe I’ll still get something decent for her.”

That’s what love looked like in my house.

So when Adrian showed up at the gate, beaming and asking when I’d be heading off to school, I couldn’t even speak. I just stood there, frozen, as the door creaked open behind me.

My father’s voice, suddenly sweet and servile, floated out like honey on rotted bread. “My girl here’s got no issues at all. Once you’re ready, I’ll send her over myself.”

They all looked at me as if I were up for auction.

I dropped my head, too ashamed to meet anyone’s gaze. I could feel the tears coming fast and hot, and they wouldn’t stop.

“I’m not going to school,” I mumbled. “I have to get married.”

Adrian’s voice came from somewhere low, like he was choking on it. “You… want to get married?”

I didn’t answer. I just cried even harder.

That night, Adrian climbed seven flights of stairs with his bare hands just to reach me.

It was dark. Nearly midnight. But his eyes were burning like stars.

“I brought money,” Adrian said, panting. “Come on, let’s go to school.”

Since I was a kid, I’d always been told to obey adults without question. But that night, all I wanted was to hold Adrian’s hand and never let go.

High school wasn’t easy. I got teased for my country accent and my hand-me-down clothes. I felt out of place, like I didn’t belong. Meanwhile, Adrian fit in effortlessly. He was relaxed, charming, and always quick with a laugh.

The city kids took to him like he’d always been one of them.

I started keeping to myself, slipping into silence, trying not to be noticed.

But Adrian noticed anyway.

One afternoon, he pulled me aside, his expression unusually serious. “Julia, if you don’t like me hanging out with them, I won’t. I’ll just hang out with you. Just don’t hate me, okay?”

That’s when something in me cracked wide open.

For the first time, I didn’t feel like I was fading into the background. Everything I’d kept buried—the fear, the shame, the crushing loneliness—came rushing to the surface.

I cried uncontrollably while he quietly stood by, patiently waiting for me to release my emotions.

From that moment on, it became a routine. Adrian consistently sought me out at the back of the cafeteria, where I sat alone with my tray.

Every day, Adrian sat next to me, eating five bowls of plain chicken soup like it was fine dining.

He never cared about the whispers or the looks.

“I’m from a small town, too. If you’ve got a problem with Julia, you’ve got a problem with me,” he’d say, casually.

When our college entrance exam results came out, they were exactly the same.

Tied. Dead even.

Maybe it was fate. Or maybe the universe was just being a little too poetic, trying to tell us we were meant to end up together.

One afternoon, my nerves all jumbled, I finally worked up the courage to ask him where he planned to apply.

He didn’t even blink. “Wherever you go, I’ll go.”

That was Adrian back then—his love didn’t hesitate. It was bold, steady, and all-in, like he honestly believed I hung the stars. When he loved me, it felt like armor, like nothing in the world could touch me.

“Do you… like me—”

I barely got the words out when a dark shape moved over the sidewalk next to us.

I looked up, and there he was.

My father.

His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes stained and reeking of beer and sweat.

His expression twisted, seething. “Found you, you little brat!”