Chapter 1
On our wedding anniversary, I made two decisions.
First, I would get a divorce.
Second, I would terminate this pregnancy.
I opened my phone calendar and set a countdown.
Thirty days.
Within thirty days, I would take care of both matters. Thirty days from now, I would walk away from this failed marriage for good.
The moment I made that decision, the suffocating weight that had been pressing on my chest for so long felt, for the first time, slightly lighter.
During a brief lull in patients, I opened the hospital’s appointment system and booked an appointment for myself. The procedure was scheduled for five days later.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds.
The hospital intercom suddenly rang. “Patient 32, Isabella Hart, please proceed to Examination Room 3.”
I instinctively looked up—and froze completely.
A man in a white pilot’s uniform was carefully supporting a pregnant woman as they walked toward me.
It was my husband, Jameson Blake, the youngest Gold-Rated Captain at North Atlantic Airlines.
Even in a crowd, he was impossible to miss—tall and imposing, broad-shouldered, with sharply defined features and a perpetually calm, composed expression.
He was also the man I had loved for nearly ten years.
But at that moment, his hand was resting gently on another woman’s lower back, as if she were something precious he couldn’t afford to let go of.
Her name was Isabella Hart.
I knew who she was. I had seen her photo before—inside Jameson’s wallet.
A small ID picture, its edges worn and softened from frequent handling, as though it had been taken out and looked at countless times.
That was how I learned that Jameson and Isabella had dated in high school, before breaking up five years ago.
Afterward, Isabella went abroad and married someone else.
And the day she registered that marriage was the very same day Jameson proposed to me.
Just then, Jameson looked up.
The moment our eyes met, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.
He stopped mid-step. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to explain something.
It was rare to see hesitation in him—but it was there.
I said nothing. I asked nothing. Only my hand tightened faintly around the pen I was holding.
Then Isabella suddenly looped her arm through his with an affectionate smile.
“Jameson, you came straight to the hospital with me after landing,” she said lightly. “You’re going to exhaust yourself like this.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, looking down at her.
Then he handed me her registration form.
I lowered my gaze and stood up. “Come with me.”
During the examination, Isabella glanced around nervously.
“I hate hospitals,” she said, pouting. “Doctor, could you be a little gentler? I’m really scared of pain.”
I was about to explain that a routine prenatal checkup didn’t hurt at all.
But Jameson spoke first. “Please be gentle with her, Dr. Monroe.”
His voice was calm—too calm.
“Isabella has always had poor health. She’s been afraid of pain since she was a child.” He paused. “And she’s allergic to penicillin.”
My fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing.
His words lodged in my throat like a fishbone.
Because he remembered.
He remembered what Isabella feared.
He remembered what she couldn’t take.
He remembered every small detail about her.
Yet everything I had spent three years trying to make him remember—he had forgotten without hesitation.
I had a sensitive stomach, but even after three years of marriage, he still forgot I couldn’t handle spicy food.
But Isabella?
Even after five years apart, he still remembered her penicillin allergy.
For the rest of the examination, I didn’t say another word.
Until my eyes fell on the screen.
Thirty-two weeks. Eight months. Almost full term.
In that instant, it felt as if something had clamped tightly around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Still, I didn’t ask whose child it was. I didn’t ask why they were together. I didn’t ask why he had hidden any of this from me.
After the exam, Jameson visibly relaxed, as though bracing for an outburst that never came.
He was clearly expecting me to break down—to cry, to demand answers.
That used to be me. That used to be exactly what I would have done.
Any woman who appeared at Jameson’s side once drove me to the edge of my sanity.
But not anymore.
Whether it was this marriage or this relationship, I no longer wanted to fight alone to hold it together. I also no longer wanted to keep accepting what was already breaking.
Perhaps someone else had already given Jameson the home he truly wanted.
Before leaving, he glanced back at me, confusion flashing in his eyes—as if he couldn’t understand my calm.
I simply lowered my head and continued entering the next patient’s information.
That evening, when I returned home, Jameson was already there.
That was rare.
He must have just come back; he was still in his pilot uniform, holding a gift box.
“This is for you,” he said.
I took it, and he added, “About today… Isabella and I just happened to run into each other.”
His tone was steady. “She’s pregnant, and it wasn’t convenient for her to be alone, so I gave her a ride.”
He paused. “The child isn’t mine. Don’t overthink it.”
I looked at him.
To be honest, I no longer knew whether I could believe him.
Because with Isabella, he had never been transparent with me from the beginning.
I opened my mouth, thinking of how to tell him I wanted a divorce—and how I was giving up the baby.
But before I could speak, his phone lit up.
Caller ID: Isabella Hart.
Jameson glanced at it, then quickly turned the screen away—too quickly, almost defensively.
“The airline has a last-minute meeting,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Go to bed early if you’re tired.”
And then he left.
The room fell into silence.
“Jameson,” I called after him.
I walked to the desk and placed the documents I had prepared long ago in front of him. “I found an apartment I like.”
If you’re lying to me, then I can lie too. That only seems fair.
Jameson didn’t even look at them. He flipped straight to the last page and signed, his movements smooth and careless.
“If you like it, just buy it.”
Then he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to my forehead.
“Wait for me to come back.”
The door closed behind him.
Silence swallowed the room.
I looked down at the name on the divorce agreement, then slowly placed my hand over my lower abdomen.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered. “Mommy can’t bring you into a home built on someone else’s love.”
