Chapter 1
Ronan Shaw was a Go prodigy, and his first crush was his junior, equally brilliant at the game.
The year she died, he married me.
We spent seven years together, had a son, and I was pregnant with our daughter.
The day I went into labor, his first crush appeared again and returned to win a major award.
The man who had always been cold lost his composure for the first time. He abandoned me in labor, grabbed our son, and sped off to the awards ceremony.
While I struggled through a difficult delivery, the doctor called him to get consent for an epidural.
He lowered his voice, impatient. "Epidurals harm the baby's brain. Besides, a second child is born quickly—you can't give it."
Before hanging up, a clear, bright voice—his first crush's—slipped in on the line.
The next day, I left Seaboren with our newborn daughter.
*****
When Ronan Shaw got the call, my water had just broken in the living room.
The sharp discomfort mixed with panic, crashing over me all at once.
Everyone said the second baby always came faster. Instinctively, I looked up, ready to call out to Ronan, who was sitting across from me.
But before I could say a word, I heard his voice—shaking, something I had never heard from him before—as he spoke into the phone.
"H-How could she still be alive? She's been dead for seven years," he said.
My face froze.
The words I was about to say got stuck in my throat.
Unbelievable as it sounded, some part of me already knew who he meant.
My husband had always been composed and detached.
Whether it was a chess match or life at home, he never lost his calm.
After seven years of marriage, I had come to think that maybe he was simply born that way—a man without much joy or anger.
But this time, when he suddenly stood up, the cup on the coffee table tipped over.
He didn't even glance at me, heavy with labor pains, before hurrying toward the door.
His foot hit the corner of the table, and he almost stumbled.
"Ronan?" I called after him, my voice trembling. But he had already rushed out of the house in a panic.
Our six-year-old son was still sitting beside me, eyes fixed on the TV.
The pain was getting worse—so sharp that I could barely breathe. Sweat streamed down my forehead in big, hot drops.
With shaking hands, I reached for the little boy next to me.
"Ethan, call your dad and tell him to take me to the hospital," I said.
He frowned, his gaze never leaving the Go championship match on the screen.
The commentator's voice was rising with excitement as the game reached its peak.
Ethan calmly brushed my hand away, his tone eerily cool—just like his father's. "You can call him yourself."
I tried again to grab his hand, desperate.
But he grew impatient, pushed me off, and walked away.
I waited a while, but no one came back.
Grinding my teeth against the pain, I forced myself up and stumbled outside. The car was gone.
So were the two of them.
That night, rain poured down as I took a cab to the hospital alone.
By the time I arrived, my hands and feet were ice-cold, my vision swimming in and out.
Nurses and doctors rushed toward me.
I heard the lead doctor's urgent voice through the ringing in my ears. "Where's the family?
"Someone needs to sign the forms and bring the delivery bag to the ward!"
My vision blurred completely.
I couldn't tell if it was rain or tears clouding my eyes.
Still, I forced the words out, my whole body shaking. "M-my husband isn't here."
The doctor's tone turned sharp. "You're in labor, and there's no family? This is insane."
The reprimand cut deep, and my tears fell harder.
Then, after a sigh, the doctor's voice softened. "You shouldn't be alone for this, sweetheart. Your water's already broken—poor girl."
I bit down hard on my lip, too weak to answer.
When they wheeled me into the delivery room, they told me my amniotic fluid was low and the baby's position wasn't ideal.
The labor dragged on endlessly.
When the pain became unbearable, I begged the nurse to make a call to Ronan for me.
I wanted the epidural, but the consent form needed a family member's signature.
The pain had blurred my mind; everything was slipping in and out of focus.
Through the haze, I vaguely heard his voice on the other end—cold and decisive. "No."
Mixed with the background noise came the familiar chaos of reporters shouting questions, microphones clattering.
Then a bright, youthful female voice cut through it all. "I already said it. Ronan and I are really over."
I couldn't make out the rest.
Lying on the delivery bed, drenched in sweat and the metallic scent of blood, I felt utterly broken.
After the call ended, the doctor sighed, her tone a mix of helplessness and anger.
"Your husband said—" she paused briefly, then continued, "he's worried the epidural might affect the baby.
"And since this is your second child, the labor should be faster, so—"
Her voice faltered again, softening with pity after a beat. "But since no one's here with you, you can sign for it yourself if you want to."
So I did. I signed the form on my own.
After struggling through the night, the sky finally began to lighten when I gave birth.
By morning, after an entire night of silence, Ronan finally called.
Beside me, my wrinkled baby girl was curled up close to my face, breathing softly.
I stared at the screen, at his name flashing on it.
Then, for some reason, I let out a small laugh.
I hung up the call—and added his number to my blocked list.
That same morning, I asked the doctor to discharge me.