Chapter 3
Henry had taken over half the bed as if he owned it, and he'd spent a full two hours fiddling around in the bathroom.
When he finally came out, he strutted like a peacock with its feathers fully spread—both deliberately and unconsciously.
He kept flaunting his body right in front of me.
I remained unmoved, quietly counting the time on the clock.
Sure enough, my familiar phone ringtone went off exactly on schedule.
Henry glanced at me stealthily, tiptoeing toward the door to answer.
I stopped him. "Right here. Let me hear how you sweet-talk a girl, Mr. Beaumont."
That day, I stood on the balcony, letting the cold wind whip around me.
From the bedroom, a gentle male voice drifted out, stirring up so many memories.
Over the past three years, Isla had left her mark on Henry—everywhere, in every way.
Now I finally understood why she agreed to let Henry move back.
It was as if she was saying, "See? So what if Henry is your husband? I am still the one standing at the center of his heart."
By the time the call ended, it was already late at night.
Henry had somehow come up behind me and wrapped his arms around me from behind.
A faint, minty fragrance clung to him—Isla's favorite scent.
"She's pregnant now and delicate. Don't be too hard on her," he said.
I downed the glass of red wine in one gulp.
I cut through the unspoken truth between us. "Henry, tell me. Are we even still husband and wife?"
Henry paused, saying nothing.
"I'm tired. I really mean it when I say I want a divorce," I said.
Three years of waiting alone had drained every ounce of feeling I had for him.
By the time I finally asked the question, all it took was a single thought to shatter the dream.
After I spoke, Henry just stood there quietly.
As I turned to leave, he seemed to make some silent decision and pulled me back into his arms.
In the pitch-black night, his voice was unusually clear. "Ava, let's raise our daughter and live a good life together."
But the man who promised to live a good life with me never came back after that night.
And I never expected him to keep that promise.
The new owners of this house were moving in tomorrow.
My daughter and I had already packed most of our things; our flight was tomorrow as well.
That morning, my daughter had a bit of a cough, so I took her to the hospital.
When we came out, I saw Henry walking out with Isla.
He noticed me and stopped in his tracks, looking a little guilty.
Apparently, he hadn't forgotten the promise he made to me that night.
I glanced at Isla beside him; her face looked terrible.
I couldn't understand it; she was clearly sick herself, yet still fussing over that body.
What was the point of getting pregnant and having a child?
Before one could love someone else, one had to love oneself first.
Isla was holding herself up in front of me, refusing to show any sign of fatigue.
As we brushed past each other, Henry turned his head.
He said, "Isla hasn't been feeling well these past few days. I'll take care of her for a few days—don't worry. I'll make sure to keep my word from now on.
"I've already found a chef. He'll start working at our house tomorrow."
As if he feared I'd disagree, he dropped that line and wrapped his arm around Isla, ready to leave.
I called after him. Henry turned back slowly. "There's a survey from the kindergarten. I need a parent to sign it."
My daughter waddled up to Henry, holding up the divorce agreement she had hidden in her sketchbook.
Henry felt a pang of guilt. He looked into her bright, clear eyes.
It was as if all his shame and failings had been laid bare before him.
He didn't dare meet her gaze and shakily signed the paper.
I scooped up my daughter and watched Henry fleeing back.
And somehow I couldn't help but laugh.
The next day, my daughter and I boarded a plane bound for another country.
Meanwhile, the chef Henry had hired was frantically calling him.
"Mr. Beaumont, Mrs. Beaumont has moved out with Ms. Beaumont. They don't want you anymore," he said.
The string Henry had been holding onto so tightly for days snapped with a loud pop.
A sense of foreboding filled him—he was about to be left without a home.
Henry hurriedly pulled off his apron and rushed out of the kitchen.
Isla stood at the top of the stairs, her face pale, looking pitifully at him. "Henry, where are you going? Aren't you going to cook for me?"
Henry paused, breath ragged.
Isla hadn't had much of an appetite lately, and only the meals he made were barely enough for her.
Now, with her pregnancy and the weight she had lost, he couldn't bear to let her go hungry.
He spun around and dashed back to the kitchen.
He cooked a bowl of vegetable soup for Isla as fast as he could—forgetting the salt.
He didn't even wait for Isla to finish it before rushing back to our home.
When he opened the door, the new owners had already moved in.
Henry frowned, glaring at them. "Who are you? Get out of my house."
The new owner, strong and solid, shoved him a good distance away.
He snapped, "Hey, so you're the jerk Mrs. Beaumont mentioned—the husband who abandoned his wife and daughter? You look decent enough, though."
Staggering, Henry stared in disbelief at the house that had once been ours.
It really had changed hands.
His trembling fingers dialed my number—but the line was dead, already disconnected.
Tears streamed down Henry's face.
He couldn't believe that just a few days ago, I had promised to live a good life with him.
And now, just because he didn't come home for a few days, he was completely alone.
Henry stood there, stunned, unsure where to turn.
Then, his phone rang.
For a brief moment, his eyes lit up—but it quickly faded.
He answered, and his mother Winifred Beaumont's voice came through. "Come back for a moment. She left something for you."