Everyone knew Peter was crazy about me.

But five years into our marriage, he knocked up his mentor's daughter.

Crying, Cindy grabbed his hand. "I won't let Yuna know."

Peter just stared her down. "You'd better not. I'm only helping you because I owe your dad. Don't get any bright ideas."

She had the baby on my birthday.

Peter looked at the kid like he was already in love.

Then Cindy, all smug, texted me:

[Ms. Zander, don't you think my baby deserves a dad with a real title?]

I signed the divorce papers and caught a flight to Hampsburg.

Silver Creek Hospital, Rivera

When someone said Peter Cooke showed up at OB-GYN with a girl, I laughed it off.

Then I saw him—arm around a sobbing Cindy Bisch, his mentor's daughter—and my stomach tanked.

Phoebe Palmer, my old classmate from our PhD days abroad, came out with the prenatal report. She shot Peter a look as she handed it over. "Baby's fine. But she needs to chill. She's close to her due date, so watch her diet."

She kept it professional, but yeah, the tone had teeth.

Peter, totally unaware Phoebe and I went way back, just nodded all cool and thanked her.

I stood there, watching him walk off with his arm around Cindy. That's when my phone buzzed.

Hands shaking, I pulled it out.

Phoebe.

She shouldn't have sent it, but she did—an ultrasound, then a message:

[How long has Peter been hiding this from you?]

I didn't answer. Just opened the image.

[Gestational age: 38 weeks.]

So yeah. He'd been lying to me for a year. From the second he slept with Cindy to now—he never said a word.

Phoebe turned, spotted me, and sighed. She walked over.

Cindy was her last patient of the morning, and the hallway was dead quiet, almost lunch.

"Yuna... you okay?"

She grabbed my hand. That's when I realized—I couldn't even feel my fingers.

I turned to Phoebe, stiff as a board, and gave a quick nod. Just as I went to pocket my phone, a new friend request popped up.

[Ms. Zander, I think you know who I am. Want to talk?]

Phoebe called my name a few times before I finally blinked out of it.

"I'm fine. Gotta update some charts. I'll head back."

I bailed hard.

Inside the elevator, I finally tapped accept on Cindy's request.

She didn't wait. First thing she sent was a photo—Peter in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, apron on, cooking. He was wearing the shirt I'd just bought him last week. The one he made a big deal of putting on this morning.

[Yuna, Peter's worried I've lost my appetite, so he made my favorite chicken and vegetable stew.]

[He says he hopes the baby looks like me. But I hope it looks like him.]

She kept going. Photos. Videos. All of it.

One clip hit different—Peter in a suit, all smiles. That was from a year ago, right before my PhD graduation. He'd sent me a dress the night before, said it was custom-made for the ceremony.

But in the video, Cindy had my anniversary gift—his tie—wrapped around her wrist.

He looked sharp, perfect. Cindy's pale arms around his neck, that tie swaying as they moved.

And the next day, he wore that same suit to my graduation, handed me a camellia—my favorite—and looked at me like I was his whole world.

I closed the video, and bam—Cindy had dropped another message:

[Every time Peter comes to see me, I'm sore all over afterward.]

Before I could bail from the chat, a text from Peter popped up.

[Babe, what kind of cake do you want today? Strawberry, chocolate, or matcha?]

I just stared at it. How did he have time to play house with her and still pretend to care about me?

Didn't answer. Just shoved my phone deep into my pocket.

By the time my shift was almost over, my stomach was in knots—I'd skipped lunch. That's when a young nurse pushed into the lounge, grinning.

"Dr. Zander, your husband's here!"

And there he was—Peter. Flowers in one arm, cake and milk tea in the other.

I didn't even know what I felt. Just knew the smile on his face looked painfully fake.

He set the milk tea on the table, calling out to my coworkers to help themselves. Then he dropped the cake and flowers on my desk.

"I know you're not into milk tea, so I didn't get you one. Got you a matcha cake. Saw some camellias at the flower shop—figured you'd like them."

I stared at the bouquet, but all I could see was him in Cindy's kitchen, sleeves rolled up, apron on.

He leaned in, peeked at my screen, and kissed the top of my head.

"I checked your shift—no night duty. Can you clock out? Just picked up some fresh Boston lobster. Gonna cook it for you tonight."

The second his lips touched me, my skin crawled. I hadn't eaten since lunch, but now my stomach twisted and my chest felt tight.

I stood, brushed him off, voice tight. "Wait outside."

As I shrugged off my lab coat, Emma, the new intern, sipped her milk tea and muttered,

"Dr. Zander, your husband treats you so well. I hope I find someone like that someday."

I paused, then turned. "Don't count on it. Rely on yourself. Love and guys? Just bonus points in life."

She blinked, totally thrown.

I sighed. "For now, focus on your internship and thesis. Prof. Harington's not exactly a softie."

Emma groaned and flopped onto her desk. I slid the cake Peter brought in front of her, grabbed my bag, and walked out.

***

Peter was standing by the department board, staring like he was deep in thought. When he spotted me, he smiled and reached for my bag.

Noticing I only had my purse, he asked, "Where's the cake?"

"Gave it to the new intern, Emma. She's drowning in her thesis proposal."

I kept my tone flat. His smile twitched, then stalled.

He knew the old me would've never handed off something he brought. But now? I didn't even blink. That shift clearly threw him.

I didn't add anything—just kept walking.

If I hadn't seen Cindy's latest message, maybe I would've hesitated. But five minutes earlier, she'd sent a pic—two slices of cake, one strawberry, one matcha.

[Told Peter I wanted cake. He went out just to get it. He was going to give you the strawberry one, but I pouted a little, and he let me have it.]

Later, when Peter served the chicken soup, I looked at him through the steam.

"Peter, is there something you want to tell me?"

I still wanted to give him a shot—give us a shot after ten years.

He froze mid-scoop, guilt flashing in his eyes. The room went still. His mouth opened like he had something to say... but nothing came out.

The clink of the bowl hitting the table broke the silence. I looked up. Peter was grinning. "Didn't you always want to hit up an amusement park? Your birthday's coming. I'll take you."

I didn't say a word. Just kept stirring my soup like it had answers.

Days passed. Cindy kept blowing up my phone, bragging about how sweet Peter was being.

I watched him cook for me, squeeze out my toothpaste, kiss me good morning and goodnight. But all I saw were two different versions of him—and I was stuck somewhere in between.

***

Peter was up early on my birthday. By the time I was dressed, breakfast was already waiting.

He smiled. "Come eat, Yuna. After this, we'll head out. Got us a spot at that place you've been dying to try."

Later, when I came out fully ready, he clipped a Tiffany necklace around my neck.

He looked proud, kissed the corner of my mouth. "Knew it'd look perfect on you."

I stared at it. "Birthday gift?"

"Not exactly. There's more."

Right before we walked out, my phone buzzed. Message from Cindy:

[Happy birthday. But do you really think one word from me wouldn't bring Peter running?]

I didn't answer. Just glanced at Peter grabbing his coat.

His phone started going off—again and again. He checked it, frowned, hit decline, then walked over, took my bag, laced his fingers with mine. "Let's go."

Even in the car, his phone wouldn't shut up. He ignored it, but the texts kept lighting up the screen.

At a red light, I broke the silence. "Check it. Might be important."

***

Peter glanced at his phone—just for a second—and his whole expression shifted.

Then mine buzzed. Cindy again.

[So? Think he'll ditch you for me?]

I muted it and looked at him. His face said everything.

"Yuna, I'm sorry. Something came up at the firm. A client's demanding to meet today."

And just like that, whatever love I had left for him? Gone.

I didn't say a word. His jaw clenched. Light turned green. He drove.

Then I said, "Alright. Go."

He pulled over.

"Yuna, call a ride, okay? I'll try to make it back for dinner."

I got out without a word.

Called a ride. Went to the amusement park alone.

While watching the parade, lost in the crowd, Phoebe texted:

[That girl's in labor. Peter's been with her the whole time.]

I typed back:

[Got it.]

I slipped out of the crowd and called Lionel Rinehart, the noise of the park buzzing around me.

"Hey, can you get your friend in Rivera to draft up a divorce agreement? And if he can, have it ready to file ASAP."

There was a long pause. Then, "Yeah. I'll have him reach out."

When I got home, I opened the door to a floor covered in rose petals. On the table—wine, birthday cake, a bouquet.

But the house was quiet. Just the petals catching the last bit of sunset.