Chapter 1

The day our divorce was finalized, the sun blazed so fiercely it burned my eyes.

Andrew Sterling pulled up outside the court, the engine idling in a low, impatient hum.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. He didn't even spare me a glance.

"Got the documents with you? Don't keep me waiting. I have a meeting this afternoon."

I squeezed the file in my hand, its rough edges digging into my skin.

Inside lay our third wedding anniversary gift—a necklace he'd given me, with its receipt tucked beside it—and a divorce agreement that had been ready for weeks.

"Andrew," my voice came out dry and hollow. "Today's our anniversary."

He finally turned to me, his gaze icy, as if looking at a complete stranger.

"So what?" He curled his lip in disdain. "Cut the crap, Charlotte. Anniversary? What's there to celebrate? That you turned my family upside down for three years? Or that you let your mother's greed devour everything?"

A lump formed in my throat, too heavy to swallow.

"I never..."

"Enough." He cut me off sharply and swung open the car door. "Hurry up. Once this is over, we're done for good."

The process was unnervingly quick.

Signatures. Stamps. Our marriage certificate exchanged for a divorce decree.

The clerk, clearly accustomed to such scenes, hardly lifted her eyes. "Alright. I wish you both the best for the future."

The best for the future.

Clutching the divorce decree, I stood on the steps, my legs weak and unsteady.

Andrew had already strode away, his back straight and unyielding, without a single trace of regret.

He reached his car, then paused as if remembering something, and flicked his chin toward me.

"Oh, and move out of the house as soon as you can. It's my premarital asset. I'll give you a week. Consider it a favor."

The car roared off, its exhaust fumes curling into my face.

I stood frozen until it vanished into the traffic, then slowly, painfully, sank into a crouch.

A faint, familiar cramp twisted in my lower abdomen.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, and the cold void inside me ripped open into a gaping wound.

I was pregnant.

I'd never gotten the chance to tell him—not the right way, not at the right time.

And now, I never would.

*****

I had no idea how long I'd been crouching there—my legs had gone completely numb.

I pushed myself upright on my knees and hobbled slowly to the curb, flagging down a taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

I gave the address that had once been my home.

My voice was so hoarse I could barely recognize it myself.

The house was spacious, yet unbearably empty.

Furnished in the minimalist style Andrew loved, it felt cold and sterile, devoid of even a hint of warmth.

I glanced around. For three years, I'd lived here like a cautious lodger, too afraid to buy even one brightly colored cushion.

I stepped into the bedroom and pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity table.

Inside lay a velvet box holding the necklace.

Andrew had given it to me the month before, saying he'd had a friend bring it back from overseas—a limited-edition piece to mark our third wedding anniversary.

I'd been foolishly touched that he'd still remembered despite his busy schedule.

Now it all felt absurdly laughable.

I pulled out the necklace, and beneath it was the receipt.

I clutched the thin slip of paper, my fingertips icy cold, my gaze locking on the payer information.

[Payer: Mia Sutton]

Mia was Andrew's childhood sweetheart, the woman his mother deemed the perfect daughter-in-law.

She was always perfectly dressed, with a soft, gentle smile—but whenever she looked at me, her eyes held an unspoken glint of pity.

My heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a cold, iron hand and dragged into an abyss.

It kept sinking, endlessly, with no bottom in sight.

So even this last, self-delusional "act of affection" had just been him regifting someone else's present.

Worse—someone else had paid for it, and he'd simply handed it to me as a cheap consolation.

I crumpled the receipt into a tight ball, my nails digging into my palm. I felt no pain. Nothing at all.

A sharp, twisting cramp seized my stomach, worse than ever before.

I took a deep breath, telling myself I couldn't break down. I walked to the closet and began packing my things.

I didn't own much. Most of my clothes, bags, even skincare items had either been afterthoughts from Andrew or given to me as hand-me-downs from his mother.

I only packed a few faded, worn clothes I'd bought before we married, along with my important documents and a handful of personal belongings.

Midway through packing, I heard the sound of a key turning in the front door.

Andrew was home early.

He stepped in with a frown, his suit jacket slung over one arm. At the sight of me packing my things into an old suitcase, impatience flashed across his face.

"Looks like you're finally cooperating," he said flatly, heading straight for the study. "I'm just here to grab a file. Keep going. Leave the keys on the table when you're done."

He disappeared into the study and emerged a moment later with a folder.

Passing through the living room, he glanced at my tattered suitcase and the cardboard boxes beside it and let out a scornful chuckle.

"Just this pile of junk? Good. Saves me the hassle of having someone haul it out."

I said nothing, quietly folding a sweater whose cuffs were frayed and pilled—a cheap buy from my college days.

A phone call suddenly cut through the silence. It was Andrew's.

He checked the caller ID, and all his irritation vanished in an instant. His voice softened into a tender murmur.

"Mia? What's wrong? Calm down. Tell me what happened ... What? He showed up at your place again? That bastard! Where are you? Stay put—I'm on my way!"

He hung up, grabbed his coat, and rushed out in frantic strides, his face twisted with deep, urgent concern.

A tenderness he had never once shown me.

As he brushed past me, his elbow knocked over a cardboard box I'd just packed.

The box was light, but it still hit my leg as it fell.

I stumbled, losing my balance, and my lower abdomen slammed hard against the sharp edge of the coffee table.

Agony exploded through me, like something inside was being ripped apart.

I let out a muffled groan, doubling over in pain as cold sweat broke out all over my body.

Andrew paused for a split second and glanced back.

I was pale as a ghost, clutching my stomach as I slid to the floor.

His frown deepened, but his eyes held nothing but annoyance at being delayed.

"Why are you so clumsy?" he snapped, checking his watch. "I'm in a hurry—Mia needs me. Clean this up yourself."

With that, he yanked open the door and left without a second glance.

The heavy slam echoed hollowly through the silent house.

I collapsed onto the cold floor, trembling violently from the pain, as a warm trickle slid down my inner thigh.

I looked down to see a vivid, horrifying patch of blood spreading across my light loungewear.

Terror flooded me in an instant.

Shaking uncontrollably, I fumbled for my phone. My fingers were stiff and uncooperative, but I somehow managed to dial 911.

Waiting for the ambulance felt like an eternity.

Every second was filled with pain and cold.

I stared up at the fancy crystal chandelier on the ceiling—Andrew once said it looked like a sky full of stars.

Now every crystal felt as cold and sharp as shards of ice.