Chapter 1I was scrolling Instagram when I saw it: my husband—sleeping right next to me—had just bought a mansion for his EX.
So that was his "surprise"? For ME? Yeah, right.
Three weeks later, he dragged me to a yacht. Said it was to make things right.
Guess what? He dumped a bucket of ice over my head while she watched. Told me to stop being "difficult."
Then the blood came. Our baby's. Gone.
That morning, I called my lawyer.
Ha. Here's what he forgot: I built his company. His network? MINE. His reputation? MINE TOO.
Without me, he's just a rich guy with a gambling ex and a sinking ship.
So now he's begging. Promising to change.
Honey, you're too late.
See, I'm not crawling home. I'm walking away. With every single thing I built—right out from under YOU.
--
Four years into my marriage to Bryce Langdon, his ex—the one he'd dated for a whole decade—posted a photo of a Hamptons beachfront estate on Instagram.
The caption read: "Finally secured my dream home. Guess I'm just that good at picking men!"
I just stared at the screen. There he was, swiping his black card at the sales office while she clung to his arm.
I dropped a single question mark in the comments.
The very next second, my phone rang.
"Seriously, Celine?" Bryce's voice was tight. "That was a promise I made back when we were together. Why are you calling her out like that?"
"You want me to break my word? Look like some flaky jerk who doesn't follow through?"
I said nothing.
An hour later, Bianca Sterling posted again. This time it was an interior designer's invoice, a hundred and fifty grand for renovations.
I didn't need to ask who paid for it.
But for the first time, I honestly didn't care.
Bryce walked through the door around nine. I was sitting on the couch, swallowing my Xanax that my therapist put me on six months ago.
Ever since Bianca slithered back into his life, this marriage had been slowly suffocating me. Moderate depression, the doctor called it. Felt more like drowning in shallow water.
Bryce crossed the room in three strides, snatched the pill bottle out of my hand, and tossed it straight into the trash.
"Seriously? You're popping pills the second I get home? Can you drop the act for five minutes?"
He pulled a bouquet from behind his back and dropped it on the coffee table. Wilted. Half-dead.
"From Bianca. She wanted to make peace."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I asked her how she wanted to handle things—you know, after you embarrassed her online. She said all you have to do is apologize, and she'll let it slide. She's so damn forgiving."
I looked at those flowers. Up close, they smelled like garbage.
Three days ago, Bianca had posted the exact same bouquet on her story: "Flowers and my favorite man. What a perfect Thursday."
My stomach turned.
I picked up a paring knife and started peeling an apple, just to keep my hands busy. "I don't want anything from her. It's gross."
Bryce frowned. "Why do you always have to act so above it all? She's reaching out. She's trying. All you have to do is say sorry. Is that really so hard?"
I kept peeling.
He slammed his palm on the table. "Don't push me on this, Celine. You started it. She already swallowed her pride and made the first move."
I didn't look up.
That's when he kicked the dining table.
The whole thing flipped. I went down with it.
And the knife I'd been holding? It went straight through my right palm.
The pain hit like a freight train. Blood poured everywhere—soaking my cream silk blouse, dripping onto the floor. My whole body shook so bad I couldn't even scream.
Bryce froze. "Oh God. Okay. Okay. I'll take you to the hospital."
I didn't argue. I just followed him down to the garage.
The second I opened the passenger door, I stopped.
The seat was covered in a brand-new pink satin cover. With little embroidered hearts.
His car had always been black on black. Leather, carbon fiber, everything custom.
There was only one person who'd change that.
He got in, glanced at me, and sighed. "Look. I dated her for ten years. I promised her back then I'd take care of anything she needed. That's just who I am."
He put the car in drive.
"She wanted a new seat cover. That's not exactly unreasonable. So don't start with me about this, alright?"
I buckled my seatbelt. "It's fine. Pink's kind of cute."
His head snapped toward me. "Wait—you're not going to ask me to take it off?"
I pressed my lips together.
A year ago, I would've ripped it off myself. Thrown it in the trash. Cried and creamed.
Now?
I couldn't even muster the energy.
"Just drive," I said. "My hand's killing me."
Twenty minutes later, we were two blocks from the ER when his phone lit up.
He answered on the first ring. "Bianca? What's wrong?"
Her voice came through the speakers, all sniffles and drama. "This house is so big, Bryce. I'm all alone here and it's freaking me out."
"Hey, hey, it's okay." His face went pale. "Turn on all the lights. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He hit the gas.
Three minutes later, he screeched to a stop at the hospital entrance.
I was doubled over in my seat by then. Couldn't breathe. Sweating. Shaking so hard my teeth were chattering. My head was pounding like someone was driving a nail through my skull.
"Bryce." My voice came out thin. "I can't walk. Please. Just help me inside."
He turned and looked at me like I was a total inconvenience.
"Seriously? You're fine all day, and the second Bianca calls, you suddenly can't move? What is she—some kind of poison to you?"
He yanked my door open, dragged me out onto the curb, and got back in the car.
Then he drove off. Didn't even look back.
I crumpled onto the wet pavement. Couldn't move. My whole body just shut down.
And then it started to rain.
Cold, heavy rain soaked through my clothes, my bandages, everything. I curled up on the ground, watching taillights blur past in the dark.
Some woman finally stopped—thank God—and helped me inside. She asked if I needed an ambulance. I just shook my head and let her guide me to the waiting room.
Half an hour later, I finally stopped shaking.
Then the doctor came in with the bloodwork results.
"Ms. Hartwell," she said, looking at me over her clipboard. "You're pregnant."
Chapter 2
I didn't even blink. "Can I get an abortion tonight?"
She hesitated. "It's a bit late in the day. We'll have to schedule you for tomorrow morning."
After they bandaged my hand properly, I took a cab home, changed into dry clothes, and lay down.
Bryce walked in about twenty minutes later.
He saw me on the bed and kicked a chair across the room. "Didn't I tell you to press my suit the second you got back? I have a meeting at eight tomorrow!"
"What—because I didn't carry you into the hospital, you're throwing a tantrum now? Are you seriously done with this? Can you stop acting like a baby for two seconds?"
My left hand froze mid-motion as I ran the blow-dryer through my hair.
I caught my reflection in the mirror and laughed under my breath.
Why didn't I iron his suit?
For three straight years, I'd pressed every single one of his suits the night before. Shirts. Pants. Even his stupid pocket squares.
But the second he dragged me out of that car like I was trash? The second he left me crumpled on the sidewalk in the rain?
I put him on Do Not Disturb before I even got into the cab.
He walked into the bedroom and tossed something on the nightstand. A tube of ointment.
"Bianca got this for you. The pharmacist said it's good for stopping bleeding."
I picked it up, glanced at the label, and nearly laughed out loud.
Expired.
Four months past the date.
"She's so thoughtful," he added. "She heard you were hurt and went straight to the drugstore. Didn't even hesitate."
I dropped the tube onto the nightstand. "I don't want it. She can keep it."
"Seriously, Celine?" His voice went sharp. "She bought that for you. She actually made an effort. And you just throw it back in her face?"
I didn't answer.
"I know exactly what this is about," he said, stepping closer. "You're pissed about the house. That's it, isn't it?"
"But that's my money. I earned it. I'll spend it on whoever the hell I want. You already took your cheap shots at her online. And I haven't even addressed that yet."
My head was spinning. I couldn't catch my breath. "I'm not mad, Bryce. I just need a second. Can you—"
"Here we go again." He cut me off and smacked the top of my head.
"You don't have depression. You have a problem." He jabbed a finger at my temple. "Your brain is broken. That's the issue here."
He pulled his hand back.
"And on top of that, you're cruel. You know that? Genuinely cruel."
Ha. Ever since Bianca slithered back into his life, he'd been calling me cruel.
He said I was forcing him to be the bad guy. Making him choose between his past and his present. Putting him in impossible positions.
Back then, I'd cried. I'd begged. I'd explain over and over that I only cared because I wanted him to pick me.
Now?
If he wanted to be loyal and righteous and true to his word—fine. Be my guest.
I looked him straight in the eye. "Yeah. I'm cruel. Can you leave now? I need a minute."
He just stared at me. Like I'd grown a second head.
Then he turned, walked out, and slammed the door so hard the picture frames on the wall rattled.
I lay on my side and put on some lo-fi playlist to calm my nerves.
Didn't work.
The tears came anyway. Just slid right down my cheeks, no matter how hard I tried to stop them.
From the living room, I could hear him on the phone. His voice was warm. Gentle. Laughing at something she said.
He never laughed like that with me.
I was halfway asleep when the bedroom door creaked open.
Bryce slid into bed behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist. "It's Saturday," he muttered against my neck. "You know what that means."
Ever since Bianca came back, I'd had my suspicions.
To prove me wrong, he'd made this stupid rule. Every Saturday night, without fail, we had to be intimate. Like clockwork. Like checking a box.
I pushed his hand away. "I'm exhausted. Can we do this next week?"
He went still.
Then he let out a cold laugh. "Honestly? I didn't even want you. The only reason I'm still here is because my parents adore you. If it weren't for them, you really think I'd touch you?"
He got up, grabbed his pillow, and stormed out.
I got up, locked the door behind him, and picked up my phone.
Booked the abortion for Monday morning.
Then I texted my lawyer, Elias Roth. Three words: "Start the papers."
...
Bryce disappeared for two days.
The next time I saw him, it was on Bianca's Instagram.
"Seventeen years of knowing each other. Ten years of dating. Now closer than ever."
The photo showed a birthday setup. Balloons. Flowers. A three-tier cake.
Bianca was pressed against him, holding a Bottega Veneta clutch.
I zoomed in. My stomach dropped.
That was the exact same bag I'd been waiting for. The one I'd put my name on the waitlist for six months ago. The one Bryce had promised to surprise me with.
Guess he surprised her instead.
I smiled coldly and double-tapped the photo.
My phone rang three seconds later.
"Be downstairs in thirty minutes. I'm taking you somewhere."
He paused.
"And consider this a reward. For not making a scene this week."
I was about to say no, but he hung up before I could get a word out.
Fine. I'd play nice.
I rescheduled the abortion for tomorrow.
Chapter 3
Later, he picked me up and immediately started talking about Bianca's birthday.
"Listen, don't get mad. I promised her back in high school, I'd spend every birthday with her. That's just how it's always been."
He glanced at me.
"Honestly? This is my personal life. I don't even owe you an explanation."
I nodded. "Yeah. I'm not mad. You should be with her."
He turned and stared at me so hard I thought he'd crash the car.
Then he shook his head and kept driving.
We pulled up to a marina. A massive yacht was docked at the end of the pier.
This was Tristan Gregory's celebration party.
And Bianca was nowhere in sight.
"Celine!" Tristan came over with a champagne flute in each hand. "This party wouldn't exist without you. Seriously."
He wasn't wrong.
Two years ago, I'd introduced him to half his current investor pool. Did it for Bryce. Because Bryce asked me to. Because that's what wives do.
I took a glass of sparkling water instead. "Congratulations, Tristan. I'm not drinking tonight."
He grinned and clinked his glass against mine. "I heard you're heading to London soon. Big hedge fund offer, right? That's massive."
I smiled back. "We'll see."
Bryce walked up behind me. He'd obviously overheard.
His hand clamped down on my shoulder. Hard.
"You're going overseas?" His voice was ice. "Since when? Who said you could leave?"
I couldn't stand there another second.
I mumbled something about the restroom and slipped away before Bryce could grab my arm again.
He followed me down the deck. "I already told you about the house. It was a promise. Don't make me into the bad guy here."
He caught my elbow.
"Celine, come on. I've been good to you too."
"Yeah."
I pulled free and walked straight into the women's restroom.
When I came back, Bianca was in my seat.
Squeezed right up against him. Her hand on his chest. Laughing at something he said.
I glanced at them, walked past, and dropped down next to Tristan.
Bianca noticed me and let out this theatrical little gasp. "Oh my God! Sorry, I'm so used to sitting next to Bryce. You don't mind, do you?"
I shook my head. "Honestly? Thank you. You're saving me from a headache."
Bryce's jaw tightened.
Bianca dug her nails into her palm and kept that perfect smile frozen on her face.
"Bryce isn't a headache," she said sweetly. "That Hamptons house he got me? I didn't spend a dime."
She tilted her head.
"Actually, Celine, I should thank you. You're so generous—letting your husband drop millions on me. Most wives would lose their minds."
You could hear a pin drop.
Everyone knew the situation. Bianca was the ex. I was the legal wife. Nobody talked about it out loud, but everybody knew.
Tristan cleared his throat and stood up fast. "Alright, alright. Let's have some fun. Celine, you first—dancing, singing, swimming? What's your pick?"
He pointed at a giant ice bucket near the bar.
"Loser takes the punishment. And by punishment, I mean something fun. Don't worry."
My stomach cramped hard. I opened my mouth to say singing—
"Definitely dancing!" Bianca cut me off. "We're on a yacht. Come on, don't tell me someone's too scared."
The pain sharpened. I pressed a hand to my stomach. "I'm not feeling great. I'll sing. Or she can go first."
Bryce's eyes went dark. "What's your problem? We brought you here to smooth things over, and you're still acting difficult?"
Bianca gave my stomach a weird look—fast, like she was checking something—then waved at the DJ.
The music went loud. Bass thumping. Lights flashing.
She danced first. Full-on. Hair flipping, hips swinging, the whole show.
Then she walked over and reached for my hand.
I pulled back. "I said I'm not feeling well. Just go without me."
She glanced at Bryce, smiled, and reached for me again.
This time I jerked my hand away.
She stumbled. Slipped on the wet deck. Hit the floor hard.
Everything stopped. Even the music cut out.
Bryce crossed the deck in three steps. He smashed his champagne flute against the railing—glass exploding everywhere.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Celine?"
His voice was shaking.
"She danced first. She came to you to be nice. To apologize! And you shoved her?"
Bianca was already crying. Quiet little sobs. Huddled against his chest.
I laughed. I couldn't help it.
"Apologize? She was forcing me. I said my stomach hurts. Is she deaf, or are you both just ignoring me?"
Bianca sobbed louder.
Bryce wiped her tears and turned on me. "You want to be difficult? Fine. You get the punishment."
He grabbed my arm and yanked me off the couch.
I hit the deck hard. Something warm flooded through me. I tried to get up—
His foot came down on my back. Pinned me to the floor.
Then he grabbed that giant ice bucket and tipped it over my head.
Ice crashed down. Heavy. Sharp. Cutting my arms, my neck, my face. I curled up, tried to cover my head. He pressed down harder.
Cold. So cold.
Then the bucket was empty. I was shaking, soaked, bleeding from a dozen little cuts.
And my stomach was on fire.
Bryce crouched down next to Bianca. "It's okay, baby. I punished her. If she doesn't apologize after this, I'm divorcing her tonight."
I pushed myself up.
Every muscle screamed.
"Divorce? Fine." My voice came out thin but steady. "We're done. I'm done. From this second, we are done."
Bryce's eyes went wide. Like I'd punched him.
I crawled forward. One step at a time. Dragging myself across the deck.
Behind me, someone gasped.
I looked down.
Blood was running down my legs. Soaking into the deck. Bright red on white wood.
"Someone help! She's bleeding!"
"Is that—oh my God, is she having a miscarriage?"
The deck spun.
And then everything went black.
