Chapter 2
I didn't know if it was learning about Emma, but once everything was out in the open, Andrew seemed lighter somehow.
That night, he answered her call right in front of me.
His voice was cold—still angry.
But also comfortable. Familiar. Like he'd done this a thousand times.
Since I got sick, Andrew had hidden every bad mood from me.
But was it really normal to fake it for this long?
His voice rose.
Sounded like a full-blown fight.
With a crash, he slammed his phone down mid-call, shattering it.
The phone skidded across the floor and stopped at my feet.
Andrew's chest heaved with anger, but the moment he noticed me watching, he forced himself to be calm.
He ruffled my hair and said gently, "Did I scare you?
"Sorry, I lost my temper."
Something made me ask, "Do you two always fight like this?"
Andrew gave a wistful smile, like he was almost fond of the memory.
"She's nothing like you. Hot-tempered. When we argue, she'll go at it all day."
I stared at the floor, speechless.
Great. I'd just made things awkward for myself.
His phone rang again from the floor.
He grabbed it desperately and answered.
Her voice came through loud and clear—bratty, entitled, every word cutting.
"Andrew, you've got half an hour. If you don't show up, we're done!"
With that, she hung up before he could respond.
Andrew shook his head helplessly, but his eyes were soft. Indulgent.
He turned to me. "My bad, I let her get away with too much. Pay no mind."
He walked to the bed and started making it.
"Go check on her. Just make sure she's okay," I said.
I thought I'd have to convince him.
But he just let go of the blanket and headed for the door.
"Alright. Get some rest. Don't wait up."
His last words echoed from the stairwell.
I didn't wait up, and Andrew never came home.
The next morning, I woke up to a new message on my phone.
A photo of Andrew asleep in bed.
And a smug caption.
[So what if you cling to this marriage? He's still mine.]
I ignored it and got up to wash.
Simple morning routine—somehow took two hours.
When I came out, Andrew sat on the bed scrolling through my phone, his face dark.
He looked up and strode over to me.
He stared at my puffy, red eyes, pain in his voice.
"Have you been crying? I'm sorry. I didn't know she'd do that."
I froze for a second.
Andrew pointed at my phone on the bed.
He'd seen Emma's message.
I walked over slowly, picked up the phone, and deleted it.
"It's fine. She's your favorite—I get it."
That set him off.
He grabbed my shoulders, too hard.
The gentle Andrew I knew was finally gone.
"Sophia, I'm your husband. Why aren't you mad? Why aren't you jealous? Why won't you confront me?"
I shifted, but his grip was iron—I couldn't pull away.
I had no choice but to meet his eyes, burning with frustration.
"Andrew, she's been with you for three years, and she's having your baby. So tell me—what am I supposed to be to her?"
I laughed.
Andrew grabbed my face, stopping the sound.
For a moment, I felt his pain.
"You're my wife—the one I married!"
Right. The wife he chose. The one he acknowledged.
But why was he telling me to fight back instead of making her—the woman hurting me—stop?
I opened my mouth to speak, but Andrew pushed me aside.
He gave a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.
"Fine. If you want to keep getting hurt, that's on you. Guess I'm just wasting my time."
Our first fight since I got sick.
It ended in a mess, both of us upset and frustrated.