Chapter 1 · Spring Pursued, Then Forsaken

I underwent an induced miscarriage procedure alone in the hospital. Eric Shaw arrived at last with flowers in hand.

"Vanessa wants us to work as a couple influencer duo. She fears our followers will discover our relationship. So..." he murmured, softening his voice at the sight of my deathly pale face.

He hesitated for several seconds, then handed me the divorce agreement.

"Rest assured. You spent seven years striving to conceive for me. I will not let you down," he reassured me.

"This is only a fake divorce. You will remain my wife, still Mrs. Shaw," he emphasized.

He feared I would throw a fit. His eyes wavered, torn between inner conflict and quiet expectation.

With a cold sneer, I signed my name.

*****

Sharp, hollow cramps rolled through my belly in waves, a slow, unrelenting torment.

I said nothing as I slid the signed papers back to Eric.

Those black-and-white divorce papers served as a fitting funeral offering for my lost child. How ironic it was.

A flicker of pity crossed Eric's eyes. "I will take good care of you these next few days. We will have another baby."

There wouldn't be another baby. There was no next time.

This was because Eric had low sperm motility. I spent seven years trying to conceive, went through five rounds of in vitro fertilization (IVF), and drained my body completely in the process.

My long silence made Eric uneasy.

He fumbled awkwardly with his belongings and realized that aside from the glaringly red bouquet of carnations, he had brought only a single cup of hot milk tea.

He hesitated for a moment before holding it out to me.

"Here, had something to drink," he said. "Your lips looked so dry they were about to crack."

I glanced at the label on the milk tea cup: [The first cup of milk tea this winter, for my dearest Vanessa.]

In that instant, I understood his hesitation.

Why would he give me something meant for Vanessa?

Nausea rose in my throat. I turned my face away, cold and distant.

"I planned to buy one for you, but I thought you wouldn't be able to drink it since you're so upset," Eric said.

His explanation struck me like frosty wind raking against the window pane. The sharp chill seeped into my bones and left me shivering.

Inside my empty womb, I felt as if a scalpel still scraped along the walls, inch by inch, leaving nothing but emptiness.

"Go now," I said. "I'm tired."

Eric frowned a little. "Claire, do not be harsh on Vanessa. We grew up together. It is only natural that I care for her more. You know, I see her only as a younger sister."

Not that line again.

I kept letting it slide, telling myself again and again that Eric never betrayed me. He was a little biased, and that was supposed to be fine.

I kept hoping that once Vanessa got married, she'd finally leave us alone.

But all that waiting only emboldened them to push further, step by step, until it cost me my child.

I lacked the strength to argue. I spoke coldly, "Take those flowers with you when you leave. Throw them away."

Carnations were meant to be gifts from children to their mothers.

What use do I have for carnations when my child is gone?

That harsh red color reminded me, every moment, of the blood that soaked the hospital bed when my baby died.

Eric's brows drew together. "Claire, how long will you carry on like this? Vanessa brought you flowers out of kindness. Must you give me the cold shoulder?"

I lifted my eyelids and looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Vanessa? Kind?

She was the one who killed our baby with her own hands.

But Eric kept on blaming me. "Your health is poor, so stop brooding over small things. A more open mind would save you from trouble conceiving."

A sharp ache surged in my chest.

I stared at him in stunned disbelief. Did he truly blame me for our failed pregnancies?

Six months into our attempts to conceive, his mother forced me to go to the hospital.

After multiple rounds of tests confirmed I had no health issues, Eric finally got tested at the doctor's suggestion.

Low sperm motility was the diagnosis, confirmed by multiple hospitals.

To spare his pride, I told everyone the problem lay with my weak body.

But Eric listened to that lie so often, he began to take my sacrifices for granted.

"I consulted the doctor," he said. "A healthy woman can succeed with IVF on the first try. You have undergone five rounds. I never held it against you. You have no reason to glare at me like that."

I looked away, giving him exactly what he wanted.

In that same moment, I tore every last shred of love I had for him out by the roots. I took all of it back.

Chapter 1

I underwent an induced miscarriage procedure alone in the hospital. Eric Shaw arrived at last with flowers in hand.

"Vanessa wants us to work as a couple influencer duo. She fears our followers will discover our relationship. So..." he murmured, softening his voice at the sight of my deathly pale face.

He hesitated for several seconds, then handed me the divorce agreement.

"Rest assured. You spent seven years striving to conceive for me. I will not let you down," he reassured me.

"This is only a fake divorce. You will remain my wife, still Mrs. Shaw," he emphasized.

He feared I would throw a fit. His eyes wavered, torn between inner conflict and quiet expectation.

With a cold sneer, I signed my name.

*****

Sharp, hollow cramps rolled through my belly in waves, a slow, unrelenting torment.

I said nothing as I slid the signed papers back to Eric.

Those black-and-white divorce papers served as a fitting funeral offering for my lost child. How ironic it was.

A flicker of pity crossed Eric's eyes. "I will take good care of you these next few days. We will have another baby."

There wouldn't be another baby. There was no next time.

This was because Eric had low sperm motility. I spent seven years trying to conceive, went through five rounds of in vitro fertilization (IVF), and drained my body completely in the process.

My long silence made Eric uneasy.

He fumbled awkwardly with his belongings and realized that aside from the glaringly red bouquet of carnations, he had brought only a single cup of hot milk tea.

He hesitated for a moment before holding it out to me.

"Here, had something to drink," he said. "Your lips looked so dry they were about to crack."

I glanced at the label on the milk tea cup: [The first cup of milk tea this winter, for my dearest Vanessa.]

In that instant, I understood his hesitation.

Why would he give me something meant for Vanessa?

Nausea rose in my throat. I turned my face away, cold and distant.

"I planned to buy one for you, but I thought you wouldn't be able to drink it since you're so upset," Eric said.

His explanation struck me like frosty wind raking against the window pane. The sharp chill seeped into my bones and left me shivering.

Inside my empty womb, I felt as if a scalpel still scraped along the walls, inch by inch, leaving nothing but emptiness.

"Go now," I said. "I'm tired."

Eric frowned a little. "Claire, do not be harsh on Vanessa. We grew up together. It is only natural that I care for her more. You know, I see her only as a younger sister."

Not that line again.

I kept letting it slide, telling myself again and again that Eric never betrayed me. He was a little biased, and that was supposed to be fine.

I kept hoping that once Vanessa got married, she'd finally leave us alone.

But all that waiting only emboldened them to push further, step by step, until it cost me my child.

I lacked the strength to argue. I spoke coldly, "Take those flowers with you when you leave. Throw them away."

Carnations were meant to be gifts from children to their mothers.

What use do I have for carnations when my child is gone?

That harsh red color reminded me, every moment, of the blood that soaked the hospital bed when my baby died.

Eric's brows drew together. "Claire, how long will you carry on like this? Vanessa brought you flowers out of kindness. Must you give me the cold shoulder?"

I lifted my eyelids and looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Vanessa? Kind?

She was the one who killed our baby with her own hands.

But Eric kept on blaming me. "Your health is poor, so stop brooding over small things. A more open mind would save you from trouble conceiving."

A sharp ache surged in my chest.

I stared at him in stunned disbelief. Did he truly blame me for our failed pregnancies?

Six months into our attempts to conceive, his mother forced me to go to the hospital.

After multiple rounds of tests confirmed I had no health issues, Eric finally got tested at the doctor's suggestion.

Low sperm motility was the diagnosis, confirmed by multiple hospitals.

To spare his pride, I told everyone the problem lay with my weak body.

But Eric listened to that lie so often, he began to take my sacrifices for granted.

"I consulted the doctor," he said. "A healthy woman can succeed with IVF on the first try. You have undergone five rounds. I never held it against you. You have no reason to glare at me like that."

I looked away, giving him exactly what he wanted.

In that same moment, I tore every last shred of love I had for him out by the roots. I took all of it back.