I froze.

And then the pain knocked me down completely. I collapsed, clutching my abdomen, the agony tearing through me.

The kind of betrayal I had only ever seen in movies had finally happened—to me.

Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself toward the front door and managed to yank it open. "Help…" I shouted.

Then, everything went black.

…

When I woke, a tall figure was sitting by my hospital bed.

It was Shane Lawson, the young doctor who lived in the apartment across from mine. He looked like he hadn't slept—dark circles hung under his eyes.

"Alison… why were you alone? Where was your husband? Do you even realize if I hadn't been walking my dog last night…"

He didn't finish. He looked at me, saw my state, and fell silent.

I couldn't blame him.

I stared at my swollen belly, still shaken. It looked like I was seven or eight months pregnant.

I kept clinging to the faint hope that what I had heard through the phone last night—those tangled, chaotic sounds—had just been a bad dream.

But when I unlocked my phone and saw the call log—15 seconds—I couldn't lie to myself anymore. My throat tightened, and tears spilled silently down my cheeks.

"Dr. Lawson, thank you for bringing me here. I'll transfer the ride cost to your PayPal."

I asked him to go home. I told him I was feeling better and that Vincent would be here soon.

Shane hesitated but finally left.

…

When I was alone again, I opened WhatsApp.

I couldn't do it while Shane was standing there—I was too afraid I would fall apart, too afraid of losing what little dignity I had left.

Vincent hadn't come back last night.

…

However, an hour after that phone call, he began messaging me.

There were over a hundred unread messages.

"Ali, did you call me? I didn't see it—I was working. My coworker must've answered. Are you okay?"

"Are you scared? I'm wrapping up soon, and I'll be home."

"I miss you, too."

After countless messages and declarations of love, two money transfers came through—143 dollars and 831 dollars.

The time was 6:00 am.

I broke down in tears, quietly at first. Then, I lost control completely and sobbed until my whole body trembled.

Vincent knew. He knew exactly what I had heard last night.

No one would feel guilty out of nowhere, and they sure didn't start declaring love all of a sudden.

Vincent was never the type to be openly affectionate. He could go a whole year without saying he loved me.

"Did you have a nightmare, darling? It's okay. I left a bouquet at the front door. Don't forget to grab it."

"I'll come back as soon as possible, I promise."

I stared at those messages for a long time. Then, I saw the follow-up texts he added later, the ones I never responded to.

Nausea climbed up my throat.

People didn't say "I love you" for no reason. They said it to silence the guilt—just a way to make themselves feel better.

I sat frozen, one hand pressed against my swollen belly, when the door creaked open.

A doctor stepped in. "Ms. Grant, you've developed severe ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome. There's fluid in both your chest and abdominal cavity. Your albumin levels have dropped, and your heart is under strain. We had to perform emergency surgery last night. Do you remember any of it?"

His voice echoed sharply in the sterile, quiet hospital room.

I finally understood how critical things had been last night.

They couldn't reach Vincent. His phone was off the entire time.

There was no one to sign the consent forms.

They could barely draw blood from me, and I had nearly died on that operating table.

I remembered now—how they had taken me awake in the middle of unconsciousness. I had signed the papers myself, scrawling a signature with a barely working hand.

This was our third IVF cycle. The first two ended in miscarriage.

Each time, I clung to hope. I endured it all for Vincent's dream of having a child.

I had lost count of the hormone injections. My stomach was covered in bruises and needle marks everywhere.

I swallowed pills by the handful.

Lying alone under cold machines, I was stripped of dignity, waiting for something that never came. The money drained away, and with each failure, his mother's words grew harsher—sharper, colder, and aimed straight at me.

After each loss, Vincent's eyes held nothing but quiet disappointment.

I had nothing to show for it—not a baby, not peace, not even the love I thought we had.

Maybe I had been too confident.

Even after surgery, my stomach was still bloated and round.

The doctor looked at me, sighing. "It's past 9:00 am. Your condition is serious. Where is your husband? Hasn't he come to see you? He's being incredibly irresponsible. Do you want me to call him for you?"

I shook my head and declined politely. I didn't want to trouble him.

Before leaving, he reminded me, "You'll need to stay hospitalized for now. Someone should really be with you during recovery."

I nodded and watched him walk out. Then I sat there, alone in that cold room, all day.

Vincent didn't call—not even once.

Eventually, I hired a caregiver on my own. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely manage a few spoonfuls of chicken soup when she arrived.

It wasn't until evening that Vincent finally showed up—rushed, breathless, and far too late.

Vincent said, "Ali! Why didn't you tell me you were in the hospital?"

Vincent burst through the door and rushed straight to me, pulling me into his arms like he was afraid I might vanish. His whole body trembled slightly, his face pale with panic, and even his eyes were red.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this serious? You didn't answer any of my messages! If I'd known, I wouldn't have stayed late at work.

"How can you be so careless? Even if you don't care, I do!"

I didn't say a word. My mind was still echoing with the voice I heard from him on the call last night.

He carefully packed up my things in the room, then went out to the nurses' station to speak with the doctor and get a full update on my condition.

…

When he came back and heard how close I came to not surviving the surgery, his face turned deathly pale. Then, right in front of me, he punished himself.

"Ali… If something had happened to you, I wouldn't want to live either."

I stared at my phone screen, my mind adrift.

Vincent thought I was still in shock, too scared to speak. He sat beside my hospital bed and laced his fingers tightly through mine.

Using the other hand, he pulled out his phone and made a call. "Cancel everything. I'm not coming into the office for the next few days—I'm staying with my wife. If anything comes up, let Albion handle it. Don't call me."

I glanced down at his fingers—pale and long, still wearing the same worn wedding ring I had slipped on ten years ago.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

He couldn't sit still. Within ten minutes, he had everything arranged and drove six miles to bring me back my favorite chicken soup.

I leaned back against the headboard while he sat at the edge of the bed, patiently feeding me one spoonful at a time.

Vincent blew gently on each spoonful, tested the temperature with his lips, and then carefully brought it to mine. "Ali, we don't have to rush the baby," he said. "What you went through… it scared me. If I lost you, I don't know how I'd keep going."

His voice cracked, his eyes red again. He meant I had suffered too much for him.

I finally said, "Vincent, I called you last night."

His hand paused midair. Just for a second, a flicker of panic crossed his face—barely there, but I saw it.

"I was working late and pulled an all-nighter. I must've missed the call—maybe the new intern picked up. We've been developing a new short-form drama series. You know, the kind with those bossy, controlling billionaire types everyone's obsessed with lately."

His explanation was flawless, but he hadn't realized—when something sounded that perfect, it was probably a lie.

I lowered my gaze to my stomach.

Bruises the size of fists were scattered across my skin. The marks left by countless needles. Tiny scars from all the procedures.

My throat tightened, and my eyes stung.

…

"Sorry to interrupt."

The door swung open without warning, and a wave of sweet, overpowering white floral perfume rushed into the hospital room.

A young woman, carrying a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, stepped in as if she owned the place.

The moment our eyes met, a chill ran down my spine. It was her—the girl from the call last night.

She held a fruit basket in her hands, her gaze shining with thinly veiled triumph and challenge.

Vincent's expression darkened instantly. He stood up and barked in a low voice, "Didn't I say I'm not coming to the office? Was that not clear enough for you?"

She clearly hadn't expected to be scolded. Her eyes brimmed with tears almost instantly—so full, so ready, it was almost impressive how quickly she could turn it on.

"Vincent, who is she? She looks so… heartbroken," I asked flatly, my voice laced with mock concern.

His expression turned even grimmer.

The girl flinched under my indifferent gaze and Vincent's cold silence.

She stumbled over her words, voice trembling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dolton. I just… wanted to see how Mrs… I mean, Ms. Grant was doing. I didn't mean any disrespect."

"You should call me Mrs. Dolton," I reminded coldly, my eyes not leaving her face.

She didn't say a word. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she sniffled quietly, and then she set down the fruit basket and fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

Vincent didn't follow her.

Instead, he turned to me, already scrambling to explain. "Ali, don't overthink it. She's just a new intern—Madison Olson. Fresh out of college. She probably doesn't understand boundaries yet. She meant well."

I thought, "Meant well?"

I looked at the fruit basket she brought—it was packed full of nothing but pears. The smugness on her face might as well have been written in bold letters.

It was such a clumsy, pathetic performance, I almost felt embarrassed for her.

My body was still weak, and I fell asleep before 8:00 pm. Vincent lay beside me, holding me in his arms, his breathing slow and steady.

The room was silent and dark.

At some point, I heard a quiet rustling.

Vincent thought I was asleep. He carefully slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, and walked out of the room with his phone in hand.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I opened my eyes.

Two minutes later, I sat up, clutching my swollen belly. The pain stabbed at my sides as I dragged myself into a hospital wheelchair.

Inch by inch, I pushed toward the elevator on my own. When the elevator doors slid open and I reached the lobby, panic gripped me. I quickly rolled behind the wall to hide.

Vincent was standing right there in the lobby.

From my hiding place, I saw him with Madison. His arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling her head with aching tenderness.

Right in the middle of the busy hospital entrance, they kissed without hesitation, completely unbothered by the people walking past.

Ten whole minutes went by before they finally pulled apart, flushed and breathless, and walked off toward the parking garage hand in hand.

A sharp pain tore through my stomach, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe. It felt like a thousand knives were twisting inside me.

Every step I took was hunched and agonizing. I could barely move, but I refused to stop.

I had to see it with my own eyes. I had to see the truth of the man I had loved for ten years.

In the parking garage, only one car remained with its lights on.

Vincent said, "Get in."

The dim underground parking garage echoed with his voice—cold, sharp. The tenderness he always showed me had completely vanished.

He shoved Madison roughly into the back seat. Then, he climbed in after her and slammed the door shut. Neither of them came out again.

I stayed just a short distance away, hidden in the shadows, clutching my phone.

I connected it to the car's internal surveillance feed. As the live footage and audio came through, I slowly began wheeling myself back toward the building, inch by inch.

…

"I thought you were mad at me today. Yet, here you are," Vincent said as he leaned over her, his voice laced with amusement.

"I missed you. I knew you had to be with Alison today, but I still felt so abandoned. You promised you'd take me to the beach… and then you just vanished all afternoon." Madison pouted, tears shimmering in her wide eyes.

She looked like she was crying, but her fingers dug greedily into the bare skin of his back.

Red scratches, still fresh, lined his body—marks from the night before. The night they had spent together hadn't just been passionate. It had been ruthless.

"Madison, stop crying. Take it off. Now," Vincent ordered, voice low and commanding.

She looked up at him like he hung the moon. One piece of clothing at a time, she obeyed.

I didn't return to my room right away. Instead, I sat in a dark, empty corridor like a thief, clutching my phone and spying on them through the hidden camera.

It wasn't long before their breathing turned ragged, their voices melting into moans. Vincent gripped her tightly, kissing her like he couldn't get enough.

"I love you, Vincent. I'd suffer anything for you," she whispered.

"I love you, too, you silly girl. So damn much."

I hit record.

Then, I rolled myself back to the hospital room, slipped off my earbuds, and stopped listening. I had heard enough.

…

Later that night, the doctor, Laura Sutton, came by on rounds. She frowned at the half-lit room and the empty visitor chair.

"Where's your husband? He was here earlier, right? Why did he leave so soon?" she asked.

I gave her a tired smile and asked quietly, "Dr. Sutton, I've changed my mind. I don't want to have the baby anymore. How soon can I be discharged?"

She hesitated for a moment, gave me a date, then turned and walked out without another word.

Vincent never came back that night.

…

By morning, the door creaked open. He stood there, rumpled and exhausted, his shirt misbuttoned and the faint smell of perfume clinging to his collar.

"Ali, I'm sorry. Something urgent came up at the company. After I finished, I didn't want to wake you, so I stopped by the house first."

By now, lying came as naturally to him as breathing.

Staring at the man who had once felt like he was a part of my very soul, I could almost hear my heart drop—like it had been shoved off a cliff built from years of love, crashing into an endless, merciless void.

"Oh, right, I brought you some clean clothes. Why don't you change into something fresh?"

He pulled out a bag and offered a casual apology as he continued, "You had a new dress, right? I accidentally ruined it, so I threw it out. Buy a new one when you're free. I'll cover it."

I smiled and nodded. "Sure."

Vincent wasn't willing to go to the office, yet his phone kept buzzing with call after call.

…

After being woken up for the fifth time by his ringer, I finally opened my eyes and murmured, "You should go in. Don't worry about me."

Only then did he let out a sigh of relief, leaned down to kiss my forehead, and left reluctantly.

Once he left, I stayed in bed and made a call. A few minutes later, every detail about Madison appeared in my inbox.

Her Instagram handle was "Princess Maddy", with the bio reading, "Every day with my Vince".

She had hundreds of posts detailing her "life in love"—trips abroad, designer handbags, and heels.

The innocent intern who had once stood before me—in her denim skirt, white blouse, and sneakers—hid a completely different side behind the scenes, surrounded by luxury brands and dressed like a pampered sugar baby in tight designer dresses.

In every photo she posted with Vincent, their faces were covered with emoji stickers.

The two of them had been posting about their secret romance for over half a year. Over five hundred posts, every single one about her and the wealthy boyfriend she was "in love" with.

She even had a decent following—over a hundred thousand.

The earliest post?

It was dated on my birthday.

"He was drunk, so I stole a kiss. He didn't push me away. He said I was cute."

That same night, Vincent had come home and pulled me into bed, whispering over and over that we should try again. That he wanted a child with me.

My lips twitched bitterly as I scrolled to her latest update.

There it was. The dress he said he had ruined and thrown away—she was wearing it.

It wasn't just any dress. It was a gift from Vincent after I had spent half a year recovering from a miscarriage—the second one.

To me, it was a symbol of grief, of loss, of healing. It was meant to be the one thing I kept as a memory of the child who never made it.

I had never even worn it—not even once.

Not just because it was the most expensive piece of clothing I owned, but because of what it represented. I had stored it at the back of my closet, hidden, safe.

There was no way he found it by accident or casually "ruined" it.

I opened the surveillance footage from last night—the in-car camera. I skipped ahead to the end.

Vincent's voice was low and calm as he drove Madison, whose torn dress was barely hanging on, back to the villa.

"Why can't I come in?" she pouted.

"Alison's sharp. Don't make a scene."

Madison's eyes welled up with tears, clearly upset, until Vincent pulled out my most precious dress for her.

She obviously knew what that dress meant. Suddenly, her mood brightened.

Still, in her black stockings, she lifted one foot and teasingly brushed it along Vincent's jawline, her voice sultry. "Then, help me put it on."

"You were real quick to take it off last night. Lost your patience now?"