Vincent was fast asleep beside me.

Perhaps he was feeling cold—his arm tightened around mine, his hand pressing down directly on my stomach.

I had a weak stomach to begin with, and now, in the early stages of pregnancy, the pressure sent a wave of nausea crashing over me. Sleep fled instantly.

I pushed Vincent away in a panic. He muttered something in his sleep, then rolled over.

I didn't spare him another glance. Instead, I ran to the bathroom.

After what felt like an eternity of retching, I stumbled out, body weak and exhausted. I needed a glass of warm water, something to settle the churning in my stomach.

I assumed Vincent was still asleep. But when I reached the dining table, I found a steaming cup of herbal drink waiting for me.

Vincent was sitting nearby, rubbing his eyes, still half-asleep. When he saw me, he sighed, as if exasperated.

"If I don't watch over you for even a day, you forget to take your medicine, don't you?" he said. "My poor, fragile wife—what would you do without me?"

Next to the cup was a pill for my stomach. A freshly boiled kettle of water sat beside it, steam curling lazily into the air.

"Drink it while it's hot," he urged, pushing the cup toward me. "And after you're done, pour the leftover hot water into a heating pad and keep it on your stomach—it'll feel better."

Looking into his eyes, I felt a sudden ache in my heart.

He was too practiced at this. Too familiar with taking care of me, as if loving me had long since become muscle memory.

It made me want to soften. To waver.

But I couldn't.

Absolutely not.

I despised betrayal. It sickened me.

Ignoring the pill, I tilted my head back and swallowed the herbal drink in one go, forcing down the sting in my throat.

Then, I said, "Vincent, let's get a divorce."

Vincent froze. Then, as if convinced he had misheard, he reached out and tousled my hair.

"Did you wake up in a daze? Or did throwing up make you lightheaded? Stop talking nonsense."

I stepped away, out of his reach. My gaze met his, calm and unwavering.

"I know about you and Cassidy," I said. "Stop pretending."

For a fraction of a second, his expression went blank.

He recovered quickly, but I had already seen it.

He let out a laugh, easy and natural.

"Come on, what could possibly be going on between me and her? She's just a friend, at most a little closer than a friend. You know, a foodie buddy. You're still upset about earlier, aren't you?"

He grasped my shoulders and looked into my eyes calmly.

"I already explained, didn't I? You can't eat oily or spicy food because of your stomach. Why would I take you there? Just to sit and watch us eat? Wouldn't that be awkward for you?"

I didn't want to hear his excuses. I cut him off coldly.

"What's today's date?"

Vincent hesitated, as if trying to recall. Then, as realization dawned, he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Oh, so that's why you're upset. My dear wife, I'm really sorry. I'll take the day off tomorrow. We can redo our anniversary properly, alright?"

I opened my mouth, ready to expose him completely.

But at that moment, his phone rang.

A name flashed on the screen: Cassidy.

He didn't put it on speaker, but her voice came through, loud and clear.

"Vincent, that restaurant we went to today must've been unsanitary. I feel awful. My stomach hurts so much. Can you take me to the hospital? I just… I really want you here with me."

Vincent's brows furrowed instantly.

Even when I had just asked for a divorce, he hadn't looked this tense.

But when he spoke, his voice was gentle.

"Alright. Wear something warm. I'm coming now."

Vincent ended the call, grabbed a coat from the bedroom, and headed for the door.

As he brushed past me, his shoulder knocked into mine.

I staggered, my lower abdomen slamming against the edge of the table. A sharp, piercing pain shot through me.

He didn't notice. Didn't stop. Just threw a careless remark over his shoulder.

"Cassidy isn't feeling well. I need to take her to the hospital."

Then, as if that weren't enough, he added, "Stop making a fuss. There's nothing between me and her. We're just friends. If you don't believe me, I'll bring her over once she's better. She can explain it to you herself."

The pain left me sweating, my patience worn thin. I pulled out my phone, turned the volume up to its maximum, and hit play on a voice message that Cassidy had sent me.

"Well then, why don't you let her explain to me in person? What exactly did she mean when she sent me this?" I questioned.

For the briefest moment, Vincent stiffened. Then, almost instantly, his face smoothed over, his expression taking on a practiced ease.

"It's just a joke," he said. "We were talking about you over dinner. Cassidy even complained about me not bringing you along. I just made a joke."

His voice turned colder. "You should really learn from her. She's not as petty and unreasonable. Is this the reason you're asking for a divorce?"

He brushed it off as if I were making a big deal out of nothing.

I let out a short, bitter laugh.

There was no point in pretending anymore.

"Forgetting our wedding anniversary. You lied about a business trip just so you could go on a private vacation with her." I locked eyes with him. "Vincent, how much more evidence do you need before you finally admit you cheated?"

He hadn't expected this.

His first reaction wasn't guilt. It was fury.

With a sharp movement, he flung his keys onto the table, his voice dropping to a frigid tone.

"So you've been spying on me? Checking who I travel with? Don't you know that trust is the most important thing in a marriage?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The irony was too obvious.

He let out a harsh breath. His phone rang again.

It was Cassidy.

This time, he ignored it. He picked up his keys from the table and forced himself to breathe evenly.

"I'm not going to argue with you about this tonight," he said. "We'll talk about the divorce when I get back, alright? I need to check on Cassidy. She's sick."

I was too tired to fight anymore. Wordlessly, I took out a divorce agreement, unfolded it, and blocked his way to the door.

"Sign this first. Then you can go wherever you want."

Vincent let out a short, incredulous laugh.

"You had this ready," he said, his eyes narrowing. "So you were planning to leave me all along, weren't you?"

I didn't answer. Just held out a pen, standing my ground.

The phone rang again. But he didn't pick it up, just glared at me and huffed angrily.

By the fourth time the phone rang, he lost all patience.

His temper finally snapped.

With a forceful shove, he sent me sprawling to the floor.

"I'm not signing it!" he roared.

I hit the ground hard. A fresh wave of pain seared through my abdomen, like something inside me was being torn apart.

I tried to call out to him, but my voice wouldn't come.

Vincent had already stepped out the door. He didn't even turn back.

I lay on the floor, my limbs weak, a creeping sense of fear taking hold.

Something was wrong.

I could feel it.

The connection between me and my baby… was slipping away.

My vision swam. The world tilted.

And just as the last shred of consciousness slipped from my grasp, I heard a voice—raw, desperate, piercing through the fog.

"Samantha! Don't scare me! You're bleeding—OMG, you're bleeding so much!"