Chapter 2

The operating room door swung open. A doctor stuck his head in and said grimly, "The family still isn't here? The patient is hemorrhaging. If we wait any longer, even the mother could die. The baby can't be saved. We have to operate right now."

The baby... I lowered my head and touched my flat lower belly. There had once been a little life there.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was over the moon. I even imagined that this baby might win me a little warmth from Edward. I hid the report, planning to surprise him on our anniversary. Now it all felt like a cruel joke.

I looked up at the doctor. My throat was so raw my voice sounded like sand scraping together. "Doctor, I'll sign it myself."

The nurse handed me the paperwork and a pen. Using every ounce of strength I had left, I signed my own name in the space marked family signature: Mia Lane. Every stroke felt like carving into bone with a knife.

The moment I finished the last letter, my vision went black and I lost consciousness.

When I woke again, it was already broad daylight. The fireworks were gone, leaving behind nothing but cold silence—the same ending my five-year marriage had found.

The hospital room was empty except for the dull beeping of machines. Even the smell of disinfectant felt harsh and lonely.

I pushed myself upright. My lower belly felt terrifyingly empty, as if the last living bond between us had been severed. My baby was gone.

Tears rolled down soundlessly, soaking into the pillow one drop at a time, but I never made a sound. Maybe this was what it meant for grief to go past crying and straight into a deadened heart.

The phone on the nightstand buzzed. It was a news alert: [CEO Sinclair Spends a Fortune on Bridge Fireworks for Love; Mystery Woman's Identity Unknown.] The attached photo showed Edward and Vivian standing together, cutting her birthday cake.

Edward was bent slightly toward Vivian, a smile in his eyes I'd never once seen directed at me. Her hand rested over his on the cake knife. They looked perfect together, and I was the only joke in the picture.

I closed the article, opened WhatsApp, and tapped the contact pinned at the top. [Edward, let's get divorced.] After sending it, I blocked him and deleted the chat in one smooth, effortless motion.

I pulled the IV from my hand, ignored the nurse trying to stop me, changed clothes, and walked out of the hospital. The sunlight fell on me without warmth. I called a ride back to the villa I used to call home.

Every plant and every piece of furniture there had been arranged by my own hands. I had once naively believed it would be where I belonged for the rest of my life. Now it looked like nothing more than a gilded cage.

I went into the walk-in closet. I had very little of my own there; one small suitcase was enough for everything, mostly cheap clothes that never belonged in a mansion like this. When I opened a drawer and saw the pregnancy report buried at the bottom, I tore it to shreds and threw it away without expression.

Then I took out paper and a pen from the study. In the harsh light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I carefully wrote the words Divorce Agreement, stroke by stroke. I didn't want a single cent from him. I only wanted freedom.

When I finished, I placed the agreement on the most obvious spot on the coffee table and set my wedding ring beside it. That enormous diamond had once made women across the city jealous. Now I couldn't stand the sight of it.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I gave the place I'd lived in for five years one last look. There was nothing worth missing. I opened the door and walked out without looking back. From today on, there would be no Mrs. Sinclair—only Mia Lane.