Chapter 4
"Because I always believed that someday you'd come back to me. The first time we met, when you looked at my designs, your eyes weren't seeing a substitute. That moment was what I gambled everything on. But now, I'm done hoping," I said.
I took out the papers I'd hidden under my pillow and placed them on the bed.
"Divorce papers. My lawyer already prepared them. The baby stays with me. I don't want anything else," I said heavily.
He didn't take the papers. Instead, he came over, crouched by my bed, and grabbed my hand. His touch was icy, his knuckles sharp, and I could feel the rough callus on his middle finger from all those years spent writing.
"Raine," Morgan murmured, pressing my hand against his forehead. "I'm sorry."
Three years, and this was the first time he'd ever said those words to me.
I didn't pull away, and I didn't squeeze back. I just stared down at him, at the man I'd waited for so long, finally bowing his head, right when I'd stopped waiting for him.
"Morgan," I said.
"Mm," he murmured.
"It's too late for apologies," I said.
I pulled my hand back, picked up the apple from the nightstand, and went on eating it, one piece at a time. It tasted extra sweet.
That night, Morgan didn't leave. He sat in the chair by my bed, quietly watching as I finished all the apple slices, then watched me slowly eat a bowl of soup.
When the nurse came in to check my temperature, he stood up to make room for her, then sat back down. After that, neither of us said a single word.
At two in the morning, I jolted awake from a nightmare. In my dream, I was back in the delivery room, the heart monitor blared out a shrill, continuous beep.
I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn't open. I tried to cry out, but no sound came. Then I heard a baby's cry. It was so distant, it was like it was echoing from the other side of the sea.
I sat up, breathing hard. The bedside lamp was on. I didn't even know when Morgan had dragged his chair right up to my bed. He was asleep, one hand resting on the edge, his fingers only inches away from my wrist.
The light spilled across his face. Even in sleep, his brows were knitted, like even in his dreams, something was weighing on him.
I watched him for a long time. Then I reached out and softly brushed his fingers off the edge of the bed.
My touch was barely there, but it was enough to wake him.
"Raine?" Morgan jerked awake, his voice hoarse. "Is something wrong? Are you okay?"
"I want some water," I mumbled.
Morgan got up right away and went out to get it. The water cooler was at the end of the hallway. He closed the door behind him, his footsteps quick and urgent.
I leaned back against the headboard, watching the door. When he came back, the water was warm, just the way I liked it. I knew he had checked the temperature for me.
I took the cup and drank it slowly, one sip at a time. Then, I said, "Morgan."
"Yeah?" he replied.
"What should we name the baby?" I asked.
Morgan paused. We'd never talked about this before. When I was pregnant, I asked him a few times, but he always said, "Whatever you want." So I stopped asking.
He was silent for a long time.
"Hugo," Morgan said. "For wisdom and peace, Hugo Sinclair."
Hugo Sinclair. My last name was Sinclair, his was Sterling. He wanted our child to be Hugo.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"Peace knowing that he's okay," Morgan said softly.
I didn't say a word. I finished my water, set the glass on the nightstand, and turned away from him. Soon, my pillow was wet with tears.
On the seventh day of my hospital stay, the lawyer showed up. She was Beatrice Walter, a middle-aged woman with gold-rimmed glasses, introduced by my mom. People said she was a pro at divorce cases, especially custody battles.
Beatrice sat by my bed and went through the agreement, clause by clause.
She said, "Are you really sure you want nothing from the property split? Morgan owns 27% of Sterling Group, three properties, and..."
"No," I interrupted.
"What about child support? With his income, you could secure a significant amount every month..." She tried again.
"No." I was firm.
Beatrice took off her glasses and looked at me. "Ms. Sinclair, I know you're upset right now, but divorce isn't something you do just to make a point. Even if you don't care about yourself, you should think about your child..."
"Beatrice," I cut her off. "I'm not turning down his money out of spite."
"Then why?" She asked.
I looked out the window at the oak tree. Most of its leaves had already fallen, and the rest were hanging on by a thread.
"Because I want him to be indebted to me," I said.
Beatrice was stunned.
"Money can be paid back. Houses can be split. Shares can be transferred. But once there's nothing left to owe, the slate is wiped clean. I don't want that. I want him to owe me forever." I fixed my gaze on the window.
I continued, "I want him to owe me those three years and my womb. He should owe my son his hearing. This isn't about hate. It's about making him remember. To remember me, not just a footnote in his life, but a chapter he ruined with his own hands."
The room stayed quiet for a while. Beatrice slipped her glasses back on and took out a pen from her briefcase.
"I'll rewrite the agreement. For child support, I'll note that you're giving it up now, but you still reserve the right to ask for it in the future for your child," she said.
"Thank you," I said.