Chapter 3

I shoved the heavy layers of my white wedding gown into the passenger seat, not caring how the expensive lace crumpled against the leather.

On the drive to New York-Presbyterian Hospital, my mind was terrifyingly clear.

Every small, overlooked detail from the past ten years began to piece itself together, like an old photograph slowly developing under water.

I had been lying to myself, trying to paint over the cracks with excuses like “he’s just a dedicated doctor” or “he’s just too kind-hearted.”

But the moment he turned his back on me to run to another woman’s child—just a minute before we were meant to say our vows—that paint peeled away completely.

The hospital smelled of cold disinfectant and cheap soda.

Standing out like a sore thumb in my wedding dress, I walked down the pediatric emergency hallway, drawing stares from passing nurses and worried parents.

At the front desk, Nancy, the nurse on duty, looked up and froze. She recognized me; I had spent the last few years dropping off lunches for Ryan here.

"Claire? You... isn't your wedding today?" Nancy’s eyes widened with a mix of shock and pity. Clearly, the gossip of Ryan rushing into the ER in his tuxedo had already spread.

My fingers tightened against the counter, but my voice remained unnervingly calm. "Is Ryan in Lucas’s room?"

Nancy looked uncomfortable, glancing left and right before lowering her voice. "Lucas's fever broke. Emma’s parents got here fifteen minutes ago to take over. Ryan just left... a few of his friends, Carter and the guys from cardiothoracic, heard the wedding was canceled and came to pick him up. They took him across the street to the West End Bar to 'decompress.'"

"Thank you."

I turned on my heel and took a deep breath.

The West End was an upscale, quiet bar catering mostly to high-earning medical staff and corporate lawyers, located just a block from the hospital.

I pushed open the heavy, soundproof wooden door. Since it was mid-afternoon, the place was practically empty, lit only by dim, amber lights. I walked toward the VIP booths at the back, my heels making no sound on the thick carpet. Stopping behind a cluster of decorative plants near the corner, I watched through the frosted glass partition.

There was Ryan.

He had already shed his dark gray tuxedo jacket. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone.

He swirled a glass of whiskey in his hand, sinking back into the leather sofa with a look of relaxed relief.

Sitting around him were our mutual friends from college, Carter and Marcus.

"So, Emma’s parents show up and you get kicked out?" Carter laughed, patting Ryan’s shoulder. "You're a better 'surrogate dad' than most biological ones."

Marcus chuckled, clinking his glass against Ryan's. "Seriously, you spend more time with Lucas than most dads. Honestly, he’s basically your son."

I stood in the shadows, staring at Ryan.

I expected him to object. I expected his overdeveloped sense of responsibility to make him set boundaries.

But he didn't.

Ryan merely gave a self-deprecating chuckle, took a sip of his whiskey, and murmured, "James would kill me if he heard that."

"Oh, come on. If James knew how well you’re taking care of his wife and kid, he’d be thanking you," Carter waved off. Then, lowering his voice, he finally brought up the name they had all forgotten back at the church. "But seriously, what about Claire? Today was your wedding. You left her at the altar—she must be furious."

At the mention of my name, Ryan’s hand hesitated over his glass.

There was no guilt on his face, not even a trace of panic.

Instead, he possessed a calm, almost arrogant confidence.

"Claire won't mind," Ryan said softly, watching the ice cubes melt in his glass. "She always forgives me. Once Lucas’s tests are done, I’ll go back and make it up to her. She’s not the type to hold a grudge."

"True. Claire has always been the understanding type, not like those high-maintenance women," Marcus agreed. "But you should probably order a massive bouquet tomorrow anyway. Women are easy to appease."

Their glasses clinked together, the sharp ring of crystal echoing painfully in the quiet bar.

Standing there, watching the man I had loved for ten years, I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice.

Every single instance of my understanding, my patience, and my quiet “it’s okay” in the middle of the night had been nothing but currency for him to spend.

Because I was "understanding," my wedding could be cast aside for another woman’s emergency.

Because I "always forgave," he could sit here, drinking with his friends, smugly calculating how easily he could placate me again.

He didn't have an excess of responsibility.

He simply gave all his warmth and devotion to Emma and Lucas, leaving me with nothing but the cheap, discarded scraps of his attention.

I looked down at the engagement ring on my left hand. The diamond caught the dim bar light, casting a cold gleam.

I didn't storm in to cause a scene or cry about my heartbreak. That would be too cheap.

Slowly, I pulled the ring off my finger. The metal dragged against my skin, leaving a faint red mark, but the moment it slid free, a wave of pure relief washed over me.

I walked forward and set the ring quietly on the marble bar top just outside their booth. It landed with a soft clink.

Ryan looked up instinctively at the sound.

When his eyes traveled from my white wedding dress to my frozen expression, his smile vanished. He bolted upright, nearly knocking his drink over.

"Claire? What... what are you doing here?" Panic finally cracked his voice.

I gave him one last, long look. Without a single word, I turned and walked toward the exit.

"Claire! Let me explain!" Ryan shouted behind me, his frantic footsteps chasing after me.

But I didn't give him the chance.

I pushed past the heavy doors and stepped directly into the sudden torrential downpour outside.

The freezing rain immediately soaked through my hair and makeup.

The heavy wedding gown absorbed the water, dragging me down like a set of iron chains.

I fumbled with my keys, got into the car, started the engine, and slammed on the gas.

The world outside was a blinding sheet of gray.

The windshield wipers swept furiously, but they couldn't clear the blur in front of my eyes. My hands shook on the steering wheel.

Suddenly, an intense, sudden wave of nausea hit my stomach, followed by a sharp, stabbing cramp in my lower abdomen that made it impossible to focus.

Just as I reached down to press against the pain, a pair of blinding headlights pierced through the rain, heading straight for me.

The deafening screech of brakes was followed by the violent crunch of tearing metal. My world spun out of control.

Before my consciousness faded entirely into the dark, I felt a pair of warm, incredibly strong arms pull me from the crushed seat.

In a world blurred by rain and the sharp scent of blood, his chest was broad and warm, smelling of rain and a cool, subtle cedarwood scent.

He was a complete stranger. But his voice was deep, calm, and possessed an absolute, commanding authority as it echoed repeatedly in my ear:

"Keep your eyes on me. Don't close them. Listen to my voice."

There was no panic, no hesitation like Ryan’s. Only a powerful, undeniable sense of safety.

It was definitely not Ryan’s voice.

When I finally opened my eyes, I was met with a blinding expanse of white, my nose filled with the sharp, clinical smell of disinfectant.

I moved my hand slightly; an IV was taped to the back of it, slowly dripping cold fluids into my veins.

Sitting by my bedside was not Ryan, but a tall, imposing stranger in a damp suit.

Seeing me stir, the tension on his handsome, cold face eased slightly. "You're awake," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "I'm Adrian. You were in an accident. I pulled you out of the car."

Before I could even thank the stranger who had saved my life, the hospital door pushed open.

My doctor walked in holding a clipboard, his expression incredibly grim as he looked at me.

"Ms. Claire, I'm sorry to have to tell you this just as you’ve regained consciousness. According to your blood work and ultrasound, you are six weeks pregnant."

The doctor’s voice echoed in the quiet room. "But due to the severe impact of the crash, you are currently showing signs of a threatened miscarriage. You could lose the baby at any moment."

Pregnant. Six weeks.

I stared blankly at the doctor’s lips, my mind completely shutting down.

On the very day I decided to leave Ryan and erase our ten years together, fate had dealt me the most savage hand.

He had always wanted a family of our own. He had craved so badly to be a father.

But he would never know.

We had a child. We had one today, at the very wedding he chose to abandon.