The sharp reek of disinfectant punched me in the throat.

I blinked up at a blinding white ceiling—cold, sterile, like snow that never melts.

A bunch of doctors hovered around my bed, whispering stuff I couldn't catch. All I heard was my own heartbeat, fast and panicky.

"Doctor..." My voice came out scratchy. "The baby... are they okay?"

Everything paused.

One doctor yanked down his mask. "You made it just in time. The baby's stable. If you’d got here a few minutes later, ... yeah."

Relief hit hard. I let out a shaky breath and clutched my belly.

Then the hallway outside blew up with noise.

I turned just in time to see a sea of doctors sprinting past the door.

A nurse nearby leaned in. "Don Morello really spoils his wife. She nicked her hand and he sent in a whole task force."

"Yep," someone else said. "He booked the entire floor. Wants her to 'rest peacefully.'"

Their voices faded as they walked off.

I closed my eyes. Tears slid down without a sound.

"So that was how it is, huh, Rafe? I'm your wife. And I'm lying here with an IV drip like a nobody, while she gets the VIP treatment." A bitter laugh caught in my throat.

I'd fought my whole family for Rafe. My mom practically begged me not to.

"Mia, mafia guys like Rafe? They're fantasy material. Don't expect him to stick to one woman."

But I'd ignored her. Thought Rafe was different.

Spoiler alert: he wasn't.

"I'm done begging for a love that never exists. From now on, it's me and my baby. That's it." I swore to myself.

As I stepped out of the hospital, guess who was outside? Rafe, carefully helping Carmela out of a car like she was royalty.

She spotted me and gave this blink-and-you-miss-it smirk before flipping on the fake surprise.

"Mia? You're here too?"

Sweet as syrup, loud enough for Rafe to hear every syllable.

"Don't get the wrong idea—Rafe's just here for my check-up. Not like I can waddle in alone."

Cue Rafe's jaw clench.

"Mia," he sighed, already playing the tired dad card, "I know you've been emotional. Just... don't overthink things, okay?"

I didn't answer.

Cold wind cut through the corridor like a slap.

Then he switched tones—gentle, coaxing, like I was five. "Let's go home. You can cook something for Carmela tonight. Let's just move on, alright?"

He even brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch? Soft. The burn? Worse than all his cold shoulders combined.

I smiled. Barely. "Okay."

He took it as surrender.

But that "okay"? That was the sound of something snapping inside me.

I followed him to the car. Quiet. Robotic. The closeness I used to crave had turned into a slow, silent kind of abyss.

At home, I threw on an apron and headed to the kitchen.

Water boiled over. Steam blurred everything.

"Carmela doesn't eat seafood," he said gently from behind. "Make something light—she hasn't had much appetite. And skip the ginger, it makes her queasy."

He pulled out his phone, tapping away like her personal assistant, probably starting a "Carmela's Dietary Restrictions" spreadsheet.

I didn't reply. Just kept chopping.

Thock. Thock. Thock.

Same beat as my heart cracking open.

He used to lean on that doorway, watching me cook.

Back then, he'd say, "You shouldn't be in here. Your hands aren't made for grease."

Now? He didn't even remember saying it.

He must've finally felt the silence. Paused. Then looked at me.

Our eyes locked—for a second, I saw it. Guilt. Barely there.

He stepped in, arms wrapping around me. "Mia, I'm sorry. I've been distant. But don't worry—once Carmela has the baby, I'll ask her to leave. I promised my brother I'd look after her."

I lowered my head and said nothing.

Like moving her out would magically unbreak what he had shattered.

"Some things stay broken, no matter how sorry you are." Guess he'd never know this.

A soft voice floated from the living room.

"Rafe, I can't open this jar of nuts. Can you help me?"

He dropped my hand like it burned and walked out.

The little cuts on my fingers stung, but that pain was nothing compared to the one sitting heavy in my chest.

Dinner was pure torture. Rafe sat at the head of the table, Carmela and me on either side. He kept serving her food, refilling her glass—every move dripping with affection that wasn't meant for me.

I stared at my plate, doing everything I could not to meet her smug little grin.

My phone buzzed.

[Don't pretend you didn't see that. I know you're watching.]

No need to check who it was.

I bit my lip and ignored it. I was already leaving; she wasn't dragging me down again.

But of course, Carmela wasn't finished showing off.

She stood, lifted a bowl of soup, and smiled that fake-sweet smile.

"Mia, thanks for cooking. Let me serve you some soup." Her gaze slid down from my belly to my pale face.

"This is Rafe's favorite chicken soup," she added. "I used to make it all the time."

She leaned in, pushing the bowl toward me like we were best friends.

"Here, try—"

The spoon slipped. Hot soup splashed over my hand.

"Ah!" I hissed as my skin went red.

Carmela froze, then launched into performance mode.

"Rafe! I didn't mean to! My hand slipped!" Tears sparkled on cue.

Rafe jumped up immediately. "Carmela!" He grabbed her hand, all frantic concern. "Does it hurt? Did it burn you?"

I stood there, fingers trembling as the soup slid down my wrist. He didn't even look my way. Or maybe he did—and just didn't care.

He bent close to her, voice soft enough to make me sick.

"It's fine. Don't be scared. I'll get the medicine."

A flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes before she lowered them again.

"Rafe, maybe check on Mia too. It's my fault... if she's hurt, I'll feel awful."

Only then did he look up. "Mia, did you get burned?"

I almost laughed. "No." My voice was barely there.

I put down my utensils and left.

He started to follow until Carmela grabbed his arm. "Rafe, my hand really hurts."

He stopped. Of course he did.

When the door shut behind me, silence finally wrapped around the house.

Leaning against it, I felt the burn in my palm pulse with my heartbeat as tears slipped down.

Then my phone lit up.

[All assets are accounted for. You can leave anytime. The divorce agreement is ready. Should I send it?]

I typed back: [Yes.]

Two minutes later, the fax machine started humming.

Page after page slid out—bold letters across white paper: Divorce Agreement.

The sound of it printing was louder than goodbye.

I took the papers and knocked on Rafe's study door.

He looked up, frowning. "More company files?"

"Yeah." I tried to keep my voice steady.

He took the stack and skimmed—

Then Carmela's scream cut through the air.

"Rafe! My stomach hurts!"

His expression changed. Without thinking, he grabbed a pen, signed his name, and tossed it down.

"I'll handle it when I get back."

He ran out.

I stared at his signature until the ink blurred. My heart felt completely still.

I left the signed agreement and my wedding ring on the desk.

When the plane lifted off, the lights of Borevia City melted into the clouds.

I was finally free.

Carrying the last bit of warmth inside me, I flew toward a new life.