My husband, a regiment commander, once promised me he'd only accompany his depressed first love ninety-nine times. But when I finally reached that ninety-ninth tally, I saw the two of them locked in a tight embrace.

After that, I stopped crying and begging him not to go to her. I only asked him for a safety locket—a small blessing for our soon-to-be-born child.

At the mention of the baby, his expression softened.

"When I get back," he said gently, "I'll go with you to the hospital for the checkup."

I nodded obediently. I didn't tell him that ten days earlier, I had already filed for divorce.

Now, our divorce was final.

On the tenth day after filing for divorce, I ran into Quentin Gulley in the hospital corridor. He held Rita Hart with exaggerated care, as if she were something precious.

But the moment he saw me, his brows drew tight.

"What are you doing here? Are you trying to cause trouble for Rita again?"

His wary stare was so cold it seemed to sink straight into my bones.

Rita tugged gently on his hand and looked at me with an apologetic smile.

"Cammy, don't misunderstand. Quentin just cares about me a lot."

As she spoke, her gaze shifted to my stomach.

"I heard you were hospitalized too. Is the baby okay?"

Before I could answer, Quentin rushed to reassure her.

"She probably just strained herself a little. It'll be fine. Don't overthink it. Just focus on taking care of yourself."

My hand went instinctively to my belly, bitterness rising in my throat.

Yes—what could possibly be wrong? It was only that the baby was gone. How could that ever matter as much as Rita?

Otherwise, why would Quentin go days without visiting me, even knowing I was in the same hospital? A single step into my ward and he would have known that our child was already gone.

My lips twitched as my fingers brushed the small glass bottle in my pocket, warm from being held so often.

Ever since Rita had returned, Quentin disappeared every few days to be with her.

He always said, "Rita's been sensitive since she was a child, and now she's sick. What if something happens when I'm not there?

"Don't worry. I just don't want her to do anything stupid. There's nothing else between us."

He promised me he would only accompany her ninety-nine times. After ninety-nine, he would pull back completely and live our life properly.

So every time he left, I dropped a soybean into the glass bottle.

Seven days ago, I finally reached ninety-nine.

But when I went to find him—full of hope—what I saw instead was Quentin holding Rita tightly in his arms.

I was his wife. Yet in that moment, all I could do was stand on the side of the street, watching from a distance as he held another woman like she was his entire world.

"What are you doing?" My eyes were red as I walked up to them, stunned by the sight.

Quentin jerked away from Rita as if shocked, panic flashing across his face.

"Cammy, don't misunderstand. It's not what you think."

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, Rita cut in first, "It's my fault. I'm the one disrupting your relationship. I'm sorry.

"Quentin, don't worry about me anymore. Just let me die out here."

With that, she dashed into the street—straight into the path of an oncoming bicycle, which knocked her to the ground.

Quentin's expression changed instantly. He shoved me aside and rushed to scoop her into his arms.

I didn't have time to steady myself and fell hard to the pavement. A dull, twisting pain shot through my abdomen. When I reached down with trembling hands, all I felt was the hot slickness of blood.

"The baby… my baby… my baby… Honey—Quentin!"

Clutching my stomach, I called his name, hoping—praying—he would turn back.

He paused. But when he finally looked at me, his eyes were filled with nothing but resentment.

"Cammy, you know perfectly well that Rita has depression. Why would you provoke her? If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you! Take this as a lesson. From now on, stay away from her."

With that, Quentin carried Rita into the Jeep and drove off.

In the end, it was a kind stranger—unable to stand the sight—who brought me to the hospital.

The doctor told me I had miscarried.

Lying on the hospital bed, I kept replaying the moment Quentin walked away. My vision blurred with tears.

I made myself a promise then, that from that day onward, I would never go near either of them again.

I was setting him free.

…

The memory ended abruptly.

Quentin acted as if he didn't see how pale I was, reminding me coolly, "If there's nothing else, go back. As a military officer's wife, you should know better than to waste medical resources."

I nodded. "Alright."

He continued, "I'll be with Rita for the next few days. Don't come looking for me unless it's something important."

I nodded again. "Alright."

Maybe my indifference caught him off guard, because he seemed momentarily stunned. He let go of Rita's arm and stepped toward me.

"Your… body is okay, right? When Rita stabilizes a bit, I'll go with you for a proper prenatal exam."

I murmured an acknowledgment, pretending not to notice the jealousy burning in Rita's eyes.

As I passed them, a faint scent drifted from him—sweet osmanthus. It was the hair oil Rita always used.

He must've held her often these days; otherwise, how could her scent seep so deep into his clothes?

When I got home, Clarice Olson from next door happened to be heading out. She froze when she saw my pale face.

"Oh heavens, Cammy, why do you look so pale? Did something happen?"

I forced a smile, but my eyes reddened on their own.

So my face was that terrible. So other people could see something was wrong with me.

Then why couldn't Quentin?

Seven days, and not even one single word of concern…

That would've been enough.

Seeing I didn't want to talk, Clarice didn't press. She simply helped me inside and eased me onto a chair.

That night, she brought over a large bowl of chicken soup.

"Cammy, your health has always been weak, and now you're pregnant. You need to nourish yourself."

Her husband was a soldier too, but they had many children and lived on a tight allowance. Most months, she traded eggs just to get daily necessities and help ease the burden at home.

After thanking her, I sat at the table for a long time, lost in thought.

I couldn't understand. Why could even a neighbor show me this much care, while my own husband abandoned me again and again?

This marriage of mine was laughable.

With a sigh, I lifted the bowl carefully to my lips.

Just as I was about to take the first sip, the courtyard gate swung open.

"Cammy, I'm back."

Quentin walked in carrying a few sets of clean clothes.

I looked at him, puzzled.

"Why are you back? Aren't you supposed to be with Rita?"

He set the clothes down and replied casually, "The doctor said her condition isn't serious, but I'm still worried. I told her to stay a few more days in the hospital. So I came back to get some things."

I responded with a quiet hum, though my mind drifted to what he had said earlier that day, "If there's nothing wrong, go back. Don't waste medical resources."

So long as it was about Rita, everything—everything—became different.

Maybe my heart really had died a little. I didn't even have the strength to argue anymore.

Lowering my gaze, I lifted the bowl again.

Just as I was about to drink, Quentin suddenly spoke.

"You made chicken soup? Don't drink it yet. Rita's weak—she could use something nourishing."

The bowl paused in my hands. I stared at him, stunned.

"Clarice made this for me."

Quentin acted as though he hadn't heard a word. He rummaged through the cabinet, taking out a lunch box.

"I know your constitution. Chicken soup won't change anything for you. Let Rita have it this time. Next time, I'll take you to a restaurant."

Those familiar words dragged me straight back into the past.

"Cammy, I'm giving this batch to Rita first. When my allowance comes in next month, I'll make new ones for you.

"Cammy, skip the gala tonight. Give your spot to Rita. Next time the art troupe performs, I'll bring you.

"Cammy, Rita wants to meet my friends. Don't come to the gathering this time—next time, I'll take you.

"Cammy…"

So many "next times" that I'd long since lost count.

While I stood frozen, he filled the lunch box with the soup and offered a perfunctory farewell.

"I'm heading out. Take care of yourself."

He turned to leave, but the hem of his coat brushed the bowl on the table.

Clatter!

The bowl hit the floor, shattering—just like something inside me.

"Quentin."

I stopped him and pulled the glass bottle from my pocket, the one holding ninety-nine soybeans.

"Ninety-nine. Count them."

His movements stilled. He turned back to me, stunned.

"Already?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He set down what he was holding, looking troubled.

I didn't speak. I just waited for his response.

As I expected, he hesitated only briefly before saying, "Cammy… Rita can't be left alone right now…"

Guilt flashed in his eyes, but he still finished the sentence. "Our agreement… let's void it."

I lowered my gaze and sighed. "All right."

He froze, surprised that I gave in so easily. Then he pulled me into a sudden, excited embrace.

"Cammy, you're so understanding. Don't worry. Once Rita's condition stabilizes, I'll make it up to you. I promise I'll be there."

I murmured in acknowledgment, then told him the only thing I wanted. "The baby is almost due. I want a locket for the baby."

At the mention of the child, his expression softened even more.

"Alright. When I get back, I'll go to the checkup with you. We'll buy our baby the best, most beautiful locket."

My pupils trembled. The pain of losing my baby surged up again.

"Okay."

But my baby would never see it.

After he left, I stood and opened the drawer, pulling out the stack of medical records I'd arranged so neatly.

The first pregnancy confirmation.

The first prenatal exam.

The first prescription for medication to protect the baby…

On every night he wasn't home, I would take them out and read them again and again. They held the excitement of becoming a mother, and the quiet hope of a wife building a family.

But now…

I took the miscarriage report from my pocket—hands trembling—and placed it with the rest.

Tears fell, soaking the paper, like a final farewell.

I inhaled deeply and was about to close the drawer when I suddenly heard his voice behind me.

"What are you doing?"

Startled, I slammed the drawer shut and wiped the tears from my eyes.

Quentin walked toward me, his gaze fixed on the drawer.

"You're back already?"

I pressed myself against the cabinet, trying to shift the subject.

He approached, raising his hand—not toward the drawer, but toward my face.

"You've been crying?"

He stared at the moisture on his fingers, stunned and unsure what to do.