Chapter 1

When the surgical consent form was placed in front of me, the nurse asked for the third time, "Mrs. Tillman, isn't your husband here yet?"

I lowered my head to sign. Just as the pen touched the paper, my phone screen lit up.

A transfer notification popped up: [Stuart Tillman sent two thousand dollars to Isabel Heath.]

There was only one line in the note: [This month's allowance. Just let me know if you need more.]

I stared at those words for a full three seconds.

The nurse thought I was trembling from the pain and urged me softly, "Mrs. Tillman, we can't delay any longer. The baby can't be saved."

I snapped back to my senses and finished the final stroke of my signature, my voice so flat that it sounded foreign even to me. "There's no need to wait for him. I'll sign it."

That day was the third anniversary of my marriage to Stuart.

It was also the first time I understood that some marriages were never meant to work out from the very beginning.

It wasn't because the love was gone.

It was because, deep down, he never put me first.

When I was wheeled into the operating room, I still had my phone clutched in my hand.

Right before the screen went dark, I saw Isabel text him: [Thanks. You're always the one who cares about me the most.]

She tacked on a hug emoji.

I suddenly wanted to laugh.

I was in the middle of a miscarriage while he was sending spending money to another woman.

This marriage was as absurd as a joke I had carefully kept up for three years.

The doctor asked if I was nervous before giving me the anesthesia.

I stared up at the ceiling and said, "No."

The doctor had probably seen many situations like this and comforted me in a low voice. "The surgery will be over very soon. Try not to overthink things."

I murmured a quiet "yeah," but tears still welled up in the corners of my eyes.

I wasn't afraid of the pain.

I was suddenly reminded that the night before, I had been sitting in the living room, revising the final page of Stuart's financing proposal.

He had walked past me after his shower, glanced down at my laptop, and said casually, "Isabel just got back to the country.

"It's not easy for her to raise a child alone. I'm lending her some money to get by. Don't overthink it."

I hadn't looked up at the time and only said, "We have a follow-up appointment at the hospital tomorrow. Don't forget it."

He had made a soft sound of agreement.

The next day, I was in the hospital alone, losing my baby.

And he had sent Isabel her two thousand dollars for the month, right on schedule.

As the anesthesia kicked in, I closed my eyes, and only one thought echoed in my mind: Camille, you are such a fool.

I had actually been asking myself over and over in the middle of the night whether this marriage, filled with the shadow of another woman, still had any meaning.

The answer had been right in front of me the entire time.

Some people talked about building a life together, but they always left a door open for someone else in their heart.

When I came to, it was already dark outside.

My stomach throbbed with a heavy ache, my throat burned like fire, and the ward was so quiet I could only hear the beeping of the monitor next door.

I moved my hand, and the IV line swayed gently.

No one was at my bedside.

I stared at the empty chair, and suddenly, it felt all too familiar.

This was how Stuart had always been, for the entire three years of our marriage.

He never disappeared entirely.

He'd come home, have dinner with me, remember every holiday with a gift, and put on the perfect husband act for everyone else.

But whenever Isabel was around, I was always pushed to the back.

If she said she wasn't feeling well, he'd drive twelve miles in the middle of the night to bring her medicine.

If she said her kid wanted some dessert, he'd ditch dinner with me to wait in line for her.

If she said her landlord was after her for rent, he'd wire her the cash without a second thought.

If she said work was stressing her out, he'd be right there to reassure her.

If she said she was in a bad mood, he'd keep her company, talking with her until dawn.

As for me?

When I was burning up with a fever, he told me to take my meds and said he'd come back after his meeting to take me to the hospital.

But that night, he spent the whole night with Isabel in the pediatric emergency room until sunrise.

When he finally got home, he handed me a bowl of cold oatmeal, frowned, and said, "Isabel's situation is different. You need to be understanding."

I used to believe that being understanding was a must-have virtue in marriage.

But later, I realized that all it really meant was swallowing my own feelings and stepping aside so someone else could take my place.

When the door to the ward opened, I instinctively looked up.

Stuart walked in.

His suit jacket was draped over his arm, his collar a little rumpled, and his hair was still damp from the rain.

He was holding a bouquet of lilies in one hand, and in the other, a pink thermos meant for kids.

My gaze froze on that thermos.

Stuart followed my gaze, looking like he had been burned, and quickly explained, "Edith had a fever. Isabel was overwhelmed on her own, so I made sure they were settled before I came here."

I didn't say a word.

He set the flowers on the bedside table and sat down, his voice soft. "What did the doctor say?"

I looked at him and said flatly, "The baby's gone."

His face drained of color.

His fingers froze.

After a few moments, Stuart finally asked in a hoarse voice, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

His words almost made me want to laugh out of sheer frustration.

I said, "I tried calling you seven times.

"The last one was from the nurse.

"You didn't answer."

Stuart swallowed, his voice low. "I was driving. Isabel's daughter had a fever of 103 degrees. She was hysterical, I—"

"So what?" I cut him off. "So my baby should come after her daughter, is that it?"

He choked on his words, his brows knitting together. "Camille, don't say that. It's not what you think."

"Then what is it?" I shot back.

I grabbed my phone, pulled up the transfer notification, and shoved it in his face.

I asked, "On the day I lost our baby, you sent your precious Isabel two thousand dollars for her allowance, with a note that's all sweet and caring. Stuart, tell me. What was I supposed to think?"

Stuart glanced at it, and his expression darkened.

"It's a regular transfer. I told you before, she just got back to the country and is having some financial trouble. I'm helping her out a little," he said.

"A regular transfer?" I shot back.

I stared him down. "Two thousand dollars like clockwork on the 8th of every month. You call that helping out a little?"

Stuart paused, sounding a bit annoyed. "It's not easy for a woman to raise a kid on her own. I'm helping out as a friend, that's all."

"Friend?" I scoffed.

I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. "And what about me? When I was lying on that operating table, did you ever stop to think how tough it was for me?"

Stuart reached out to touch me instinctively. "Camille, calm down first. Your health is what matters most."

I pulled my hand away.

I said, "Stuart.

"Let's get a divorce."

The room went dead silent.

Stuart stared at me, like he couldn't believe what he had heard, his brows furrowing. "What did you say?"

"Let's get a divorce," I said.

"Just because I sent Isabel money?" Stuart asked.

"No," I said.

I looked at him and spoke every word clearly. "It's because I finally realized that for these three years, I haven't been your wife. I've been holding onto the man that another woman didn't want."

Stuart's expression twisted with discomfort.

"You're emotionally unstable right now. I'm devastated about the baby too. Don't do something reckless like this in the heat of the moment," he said.

"Reckless?" I echoed.

I nodded slightly. "Of course. In your eyes, any time I stop putting up with it, I'm being reckless."

Stuart took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check. "The company's raising funds next month. You know how busy I am right now. Can we talk about divorce later?"

I finally lost all hope.

He always had a knack for this.

He was the one who had turned our marriage into a complete mess, yet he always ended up speaking to me as if I were the one in the wrong, telling me to think of the bigger picture and be reasonable.

I pulled the blanket up and closed my eyes.

"Just go," I said.

Stuart said, "Camille."

"I don't want to see you right now," I said.

He stood beside the bed for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more. In the end, he only left one sentence. "Get some rest. We'll talk when you're discharged from the hospital."

As the door closed, I heard Stuart take the pink thermos with him, the lid knocking softly against the doorframe, making a faint sound.

My eyes stung, but not a single tear would fall.

The baby was gone.

And my marriage was pretty much over too.

I learned that true collapse doesn't come with gut-wrenching sobs and screams.

It came when I suddenly thought even crying was a waste of energy.