Kiera POV:

On the morning of my discharge, two nurses bustled in to check my vitals. They were chatting animatedly.

"Did you see him? The CEO from the VIP suite? He's so handsome. And so devoted to his girlfriend."

"I know! He's been there day and night. Apparently, she's some big influencer, Chanel Simon. His wife apparently threw coffee on her at a party. Can you imagine? There must be some story there."

I closed my eyes, the words washing over me like acid. My husband. His girlfriend. His wife.

So that was the story he was telling. Of course.

"Will someone be picking you up today, Mrs. Barlow?" one of the nurses asked, her tone now professionally brisk as she turned to me.

"No," I said, my voice flat. "No one is coming."

She gave me a pitying look before finishing her checks and leaving the room.

I dressed myself slowly, each movement a reminder of the violation my body had endured. I packed my small bag with the few belongings I had. The hospital gown, folded neatly. The discharge papers. The prescriptions.

As I walked out of the room, I passed the nurses' station. The two from earlier were still there, their voices hushed.

"Poor thing. Did you see her chart? She lost the baby. And her husband hasn't visited once. He's been with that other woman the whole time."

I kept walking.

The taxi ride home was silent. The city streets, once familiar and vibrant, looked foreign and grey. The grand villa that Ethan and I called home looked like a mausoleum.

I let myself in. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Then I heard a noise from the kitchen. A pan sizzling. The smell of garlic and herbs.

I walked toward the sound, my heart a heavy stone in my chest.

Ethan was standing at the stove, a ridiculous frilly apron tied around his waist, stirring something in a pan. He was humming. He looked… happy.

He hadn't cooked in years.

He saw me and his humming stopped. "Oh, you're back," he said, his tone casual, as if I'd just returned from a trip to the grocery store, not a three-day hospital stay after losing our child.

"I was starting to worry. Pregnant women shouldn't run around like that," he chided, completely oblivious. He still thought I was pregnant. The absurdity of it was breathtaking.

He thought I was barely a month along, not the three months I actually was. He hadn't been paying that much attention.

I was too tired to correct him. Too tired to fight.

"I'm tired," I said, turning to go upstairs. "I'm going to rest."

"Wait," he said. "Dinner's almost ready."

Just then, Chanel emerged from the living room, draped in one of the plush cashmere throws from the sofa as if she were the lady of the house. "Ethan, darling, is it ready yet? I'm starving."

She stopped dead when she saw me, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before she replaced it with a sickly-sweet smile. "Kiera! You're home. I'm so sorry to be an imposition. Ethan insisted I recover here. He's been taking such good care of me."

She was in my home. Making herself comfortable. While he cooked her dinner.

Rage, hot and potent, finally surged through me. "Get out," I said, my voice low and shaking.

Ethan and Chanel both looked at me, stunned.

"Kiera, what is your problem?" Ethan demanded, stepping in front of Chanel protectively. "Chanel is our guest. She's injured."

"She can be a guest somewhere else," I said, my eyes cold. I looked at Chanel. "There's a condo downtown. The one on Fifth Avenue. You can stay there."

Ethan looked at me, baffled. "How do you know about that condo?"

Because it's mine, I thought. My parents bought it for me before I was married, a place to stay when I visited them in New York. A place Ethan didn't know I still had.

"Just go," I said, turning away from them. I couldn't look at their faces anymore. I felt his hand on my arm, trying to stop me.

"Kiera, wait. Let's have dinner together. I made your favorite, pasta with truffles."

I froze. Pasta with truffles wasn't my favorite. It was Chanel's. I hated truffles. The earthy, cloying smell made me nauseous. In three years of marriage, had he ever once learned what I liked?

I pulled my arm away from his touch as if I'd been burned. "I'm not hungry."

I went upstairs and locked myself in the master bedroom. An hour later, I heard the front door close. I looked out the window. Ethan was helping Chanel into his car. They drove off.

I walked through the silent, empty house. The smell of truffles lingered in the air, a nauseating reminder of my replacement.

The maid, Maria, appeared, her face full of worry. "Mrs. Carlson, are you alright? Mr. Carlson and Miss Simon have gone to the other property."

Of course, they had. To my condo.

My phone rang. It was Ethan.

"Kiera," he said, his voice distant. "Chanel is feeling a bit weak, and it's late. I'm going to stay with her tonight. Don't wait up."

He wasn't asking. He was telling me. He was spending the night with another woman, in my apartment, and he didn't even have the decency to sound guilty.

"Okay," I said, and hung up the phone before he could say another word.

Kiera POV:

After he hung up, I stood in the middle of the living room, the silence of the large house pressing in on me. My eyes landed on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was covered in my paintings.

For months, I had been painting, pouring all my hopes and dreams for our baby onto canvas. Whimsical animals, soft landscapes in pastel colors, a starry night sky. I had planned to hang them in the nursery.

My family had sent over the best, most non-toxic paints from Europe. My mother had commissioned a famous carpenter to build a custom crib. All of it was waiting, gathering dust, in the room that was supposed to be filled with life.

Now, looking at the paintings felt like staring at ghosts.

A cold, decisive calm settled over me.

"Maria," I called out. The kindly maid appeared, her eyes full of concern.

"Yes, Mrs. Carlson?"

"I want you to take everything out of the nursery. The crib, the toys, the clothes. Everything. Pack it up and put it in storage."

Maria's eyes widened in alarm. "But, Ma'am… the baby…"

"There is no baby," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Please, just clear the room."

She looked like she wanted to argue, to offer comfort, but something in my expression must have stopped her. She just nodded silently and went to do as I asked.

I turned back to the wall of paintings. My work. My love. My wasted hope.

One by one, I began to take them down. The gentle canvases felt impossibly heavy. I didn't look at them as I carried the armful to the study, stacking them against the far wall, their hopeful images turned to face the cold plaster. My soul, hung on these pristine white walls, now lay in a silent, hidden pile.

When the wall was bare, I felt nothing. Just a vast, empty space where the art used to be.

I walked to the study, my steps measured and deliberate. I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years. It belonged to my family's top lawyer in New York, a man who had handled Barlow family affairs for three decades.

"Mr. Davies," I said when he answered, his voice sharp and alert even late at night. "It's Kiera Barlow. I need you to draw up divorce papers."

There was a brief, stunned silence on the other end of the line. "Kiera. Is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine," I lied smoothly. "I need them by tomorrow. And I need you to come to the villa to deliver them in person. I want this done quickly and quietly."

"Of course," he said, his voice all business now. "What are your terms? With Mr. Carlson's assets, you are entitled to…"

"I want nothing," I cut him off. "No alimony, no property, no shares in his company. I want a clean break. The only thing I'm keeping are the assets that were in my name before the marriage."

Another pause. "Are you certain, Kiera?"

"I have never been more certain of anything in my life," I said. "And Mr. Davies… this conversation is protected by attorney-client privilege. No one is to know about it. Especially not my parents. Not yet."

"I understand," he said. "I'll be there tomorrow afternoon."

I hung up, feeling a strange sense of lightness.

The next day passed in a haze. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I just waited.

Ethan came back in the late afternoon, looking rumpled and tired, but with a distinct, satisfied glow about him. The smell of Chanel's cloying perfume clung to him like a second skin.

He stopped short in the foyer, his eyes widening as he saw a man in a sharp suit leaving the house. It was Mr. Davies.

"Who was that?" Ethan demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Business," Mr. Davies said curtly, not breaking his stride. He nodded at me, a silent confirmation, and was gone.

Ethan turned to me, his face a thundercloud. "What business? Who was that man, Kiera?"

I just looked at him, saying nothing. I was so tired of his voice.

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Look, I know you're upset. I shouldn't have stayed out all night."

I watched him, a detached observer studying a curious species of insect. He looked exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, a faint stubble on his jaw. He'd clearly been up all night, tending to his precious Chanel.

"Did you sleep well?" I asked, my voice polite and distant.

The question seemed to throw him off. "What? No, I didn't sleep at all. Chanel was in a lot of pain, she had a nightmare about the… accident. I had to hold her all night until she calmed down."

He said it without a trace of shame, as if describing holding his wife was the most natural thing in the world. He even managed a small, fond smile at the memory.

That smile. It broke something deep inside me.

When was the last time he had smiled at me like that? I searched my memory, digging through layers of polite indifference and distracted nods.

It was over a year ago. Before Chanel had reappeared in his life like a ghost from a past he refused to let die. It was on a quiet Sunday morning, before the money and the fame had completely consumed him, when he'd looked at me across the breakfast table and smiled, just for me.

Now, that smile belonged to someone else.