Chapter 3

Printed right across the page, the gestational age read loud and clear: eight weeks.

My mind raced through the timeline.

Eight weeks ago was his last "major flare-up."

That was the night I slipped and fell down our apartment stairs, bleeding profusely. I had dialed Ethan's number over and over, desperate for help, but every call went straight to voicemail.

I convinced myself his syndrome had taken hold and that he was trapped in an uncontrollable, deep sleep.

I had dragged myself to the ER through blinding pain, surviving emergency surgery alone in the cold recovery room.

Even after I was discharged, I drowned in guilt, constantly blaming myself for failing to protect our baby.

Looking down at the screen now, reality hit me like a splash of freezing water.

He hadn't been in a coma. He had been wrapped up in Maya's arms.

A hollow laugh escaped my lips.

Maybe our baby knew what kind of deadbeat he was and refused to be born into a family like this.

The phone buzzed again with a voice note. Maya's voice dripped with sickening sweetness:

"Chloe, Ethan told me as soon as you sign the divorce papers, we're going straight to city hall to get our license."

"The doctor says the baby is perfectly healthy. It's a boy."

"Thanks for taking care of Ethan all these years. From now on, you can leave him to me."

My knees gave out, and I slumped back against the cold bathroom vanity.

Every ounce of strength drained from my limbs. My nose stung, and tears instantly blurred my vision.

Years of love, patience, and sacrifice, reduced to a pathetic joke.

I was never his partner; I was just the unwanted third wheel, the roadblock standing in the way of their picture-perfect romance.

A wave of crushing betrayal swallowed me whole. I bit my lower lip hard, fighting with everything in me to choke back the sob rising in my throat.

Right then, my decision was set in stone.

I was done. No more fighting, no more second chances, and no more wasting my life on a man who never valued me.

The door clicked open, and Ethan stepped out, drying his damp hair with a towel.

Seeing me standing pale and teary-eyed in front of the mirror, he paused, then quickly crossed the room to wrap his arms around me.

"Why are you crying? Babe, are you hurting somewhere?"

I jerked away, evading his embrace.

His hands hung awkwardly in empty air.

"Chloe, what is it now?" A thread of annoyance finally seeped through his gentle facade.

I looked up, catching our reflection in the mirror.

He was wearing the loungewear I had bought him, smelling like the body wash I had picked out, with my late father's custom watch resting on his wrist.

Yet his heart belonged to someone else.

"Ethan, Maya is pregnant."

My voice was barely a whisper, as though I were casually mentioning the weather.