Right below Joshua's post, a new update appeared from Brooklyn Winfield. The exact same photo.

Her caption read: Mommy and Daddy are both here. Coco looks so happy all of a sudden~

I stared at the screen, then tapped the like button and typed a comment with mechanical precision.

What an innocent family of three.

I turned off my phone. The moment the screen went black, the numbness in my chest shattered—a massive void torn open inside me, hollow and unfillable.

Only silence remained. And helplessness.

Once the tremors in my hands subsided, I unlocked my phone again. I needed to contact a lawyer. I needed a divorce agreement drafted immediately.

I navigated back to my social feed, only to find Joshua's post had vanished. Deleted.

In its place, a message from him popped up—an apology unprecedented in our five years of marriage.

"Paige, I spoke too harshly earlier. I apologize. But you know the reality—we're ten years apart. There's absolutely no possibility of anything happening between us. Why drag our names through the mud? What do you want Brooklyn to think?"

Before I could reply, a photo from Brooklyn arrived. Deliberately provocative.

She was wearing my silk pajamas, nestled deep in Joshua's arms.

"Paige, Joshua has liked me for seven years. You were right about one thing tonight: if I hadn't been underage back then, you never would have stood a chance."

"If you want to save face, be sensible and leave now."

"After all, in any relationship, the one who isn't loved is the actual third wheel. You don't want to be the mistress in my relationship with Joshua, do you?"

My fingers hovered over the screen. My vision blurred, hot tears distorting those cruel words.

Two minutes later, I wiped my face. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of my silence. I'd put a period on this farce myself.

I typed: "I'm withdrawing, but not because I admit defeat. I simply don't compete with animals for scraps."

The insult hit its mark. Brooklyn's composure cracked, and she flooded my phone with more intimate photos.

Joshua blow-drying her hair. Joshua cooking for her. Joshua kissing her...

A stinging soreness spread behind my eyes. I recognized these acts of service—the very things I'd done for Joshua over the last seven years.

I loved him, so I served him willingly.

Now the roles were reversed.

My mind drifted back seven years. Brooklyn Winfield was the bright-eyed girl I'd met while volunteer teaching in the mountains. She had grit and clarity in her gaze that I admired. Ignoring Joshua's objections, I'd taken half my salary to sponsor her education.

Joshua, cold by nature, disliked getting involved in other people's karma. His attitude toward Brooklyn had always been indifferent—neither warm nor cold.

Or so I thought.

Brooklyn was sixteen then. The moment she received the first smartphone I bought her, she posted a status saying she wanted to raise a cat.

That same year, Joshua—who supposedly hated pets—suddenly brought a cat home. Unprecedented. He'd offered only one short explanation.

"It's pitiful."

The realization hit me like a physical blow. He hadn't been talking about the cat.

I thought of Brooklyn's social media history. Every year, on the anniversary of Joshua adopting Coco, she posted an update. I'd never connected the dots until now.

Year 1: "One year old. You said the gap between us is too wide. Just wait—I'll catch up to you. Wait for me to grow up, okay?"

Year 2: "Two years old. He says it misses me. I don't know if he means the cat... or himself."

Year 3: "Three years old. He wants to give it a complete home, but I'm still too young. I can't give them a home yet."

Year 4: "Four years old. He came to find me. The night of my twentieth birthday... it hurt a little, but I was so happy."

Today marked seven years since he brought the cat home. Seven years since he and Brooklyn...

The memories crystallized. The subtle changes in Joshua over the years suddenly made sense—a dull, rusted knife sawing through my flesh, leaving me nowhere to hide.

My stomach lurched.

I scrambled to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet. I hugged the porcelain and dry-heaved until my throat burned with bile. Tears and mucus streamed down my face.

Only when the spasms stopped did a terrifying thought strike me.

My period was a week late.

I didn't sleep that night. Early the next morning, wearing dark circles like bruises, I headed out the door.

At the hotel entrance, Joshua leaned against the car door, waiting.

When he saw me, he pushed off and took the bag from my hands. His voice held a rare gentleness.

"Stop being angry. I'm taking you home. I thought about what you said yesterday—Brooklyn has grown up, and it isn't appropriate for her to be at the house all the time. I've already set her up in a rented apartment. She won't come to our home anymore."

While I stood there, stunned, Joshua wrapped an arm around my shoulders and guided me into the passenger seat.

Seven years of love, five years of marriage. This was the first time he had ever offered an explanation or apology on his own initiative.

My hand drifted to my stomach. I decided to give him one last chance.

"Joshua, I'm pregnant."

"What?" He frowned, distracted.

Before the words could sink in, his phone rang. That sharp, distinctive tone.

He answered immediately. Brooklyn's sobbing voice filled the car.

"Joshua... I was harassed by a man... Please, can you come save me? I'm so scared..."

The color drained from his face. Without a word to me, he wrenched the steering wheel into a sharp U-turn.

The moment we arrived, Brooklyn hurled herself into his arms, trembling violently.

"Joshua, I'm terrified! They bullied me!"

Behind her stood a group of street thugs, sneering and posturing.

Joshua pushed Brooklyn toward me, his voice low. "Watch her."

I grabbed his arm, panic rising. "Can't we just call the police?"

He shoved me away, rolling up his sleeves as he charged toward them.

A dignified CEO brawling with street trash over a young girl? This wasn't the Joshua I knew. Or rather, he had never been this man for me.

Three years ago, when I was nearly violated, he had calmly called the police and ensured the perpetrator received the maximum sentence. He had never lost his composure like this.

"Watch out!"

A scream shattered my thoughts.

Joshua shoved me aside. In the blur of motion, I saw Brooklyn dive in front of him. A wooden club meant for Joshua struck her instead, and she collapsed into his arms, blood trickling down her forehead.

Panic seized him. He scooped her up, his composure completely shattered—roaring in uncontrolled desperation.

"Brooklyn! Why the hell did you take that hit for me?!"

She reached up, touching his face with a weak, tragic smile.

"Because I love you, Joshua. I've loved you since I was sixteen... If Paige wasn't here, would I have been Mrs. Delgado?"

His eyes reddened. He didn't answer with words, but his actions screamed the truth.

"You idiot," he choked out. "I'm taking you to the hospital right now. If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself!"

I stood there, a ghost to him. He placed Brooklyn in the car, slammed the door, and drove away, leaving me in the dust.

I turned to leave, but a heavy, sinking ache settled in my womb. Before I could process it, blinding pain exploded at the base of my skull.

Someone had struck me from behind.

As my vision blurred, I heard the leader—the one with the bleached hair—laugh darkly.

"You shouldn't have messed with our Brooklyn, sweetheart."

I tried to run, but my limbs refused. Blood trickled down my neck, warm and sticky. Lower down, another warm stream flowed between my legs.

The pain consumed me, and the world went black.

When I woke, agony radiated from every inch of my body. My clothes were torn, my skin covered in bruises. The tearing pain below told me everything, plunging me into piercing despair.

Flashes of light blinded me. Onlookers held up their phones, photographing my humiliation.

Shivering, I pulled the tatters of my clothes around myself and curled into a ball on the dirty ground. I dialed Joshua's number.

Once. Twice. Again and again.

He hung up every time.

Eventually, I let the phone drop. With the last of my strength, I called emergency services myself.

The hospital corridor passed in a blur of ceiling lights as the gurney rattled toward the operating room.

Through the haze, I saw him. Joshua was standing near a dispenser, filling a cup with hot water.

He turned. When he saw me on the stretcher, battered and broken, his eyes went wide. The cup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor.

"Paige... I..."

Tears streamed down his face. He reached out, grasping my hand.

Inside, I felt nothing. No anger. No pain. Just silence.

I pulled my hand away and spoke, my voice flat.

"I don't blame you."

Because I don't love you anymore.

I left the second half unsaid.

Brooklyn Winfield's voice drifted from behind him, trembling and pitiable.

"Joshua... please don't leave me. I'm so scared..."

Joshua Delgado froze. He stood between us, his weight shifting, paralyzed by indecision.

I didn't wait for him to choose. I shoved him toward her.

"Go," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "Go take care of Brooklyn. I don't need you anymore, Joshua."

Without waiting for a response, I signaled the doctor. The gurney began to move.

As the operating room doors swung shut, I caught one last glimpse of the hallway: Joshua had his arm around Brooklyn, guiding her into a hospital room. He didn't look back.

The doctor informed me the fetus was five weeks old. A life that never had the chance to see the world.

I lay there, staring at the sterile ceiling, feeling him being scraped away. It wasn't just the loss of the child—it was filth being purged from my soul.

When I finally returned to the ward, having shed a pool of blood and the last of my hope, I felt hollowed out. My heart wasn't broken. It was ash.

I swallowed the bitter post-op pills and dragged myself to the bathroom. Under scalding water, I scrubbed my skin raw, trying to wash away the traces of that night.

Later, Joshua returned. He brought a bowl of porridge, his eyes wide with performed regret.

"Was it those thugs? The ones who hurt you?" His voice rose in feigned anger. "I'll find them. I'll settle the score right now!"

I looked at him numbly. A dry, self-mocking laugh escaped my throat.

"Now?" I asked. "Isn't it a little late for heroics? Do you even know who arranged for me to be harmed? Do you have any idea what you lost today?"

He didn't know. He didn't even know I had been pregnant.

"What do you mean?" Joshua frowned, reaching for my hand. "What did I—"

A nurse burst into the room, breathless.

"Mr. Delgado! Miss Winfield slit her wrists! She's screaming for you—you need to come now!"

The truth I wanted to speak died in my throat. Joshua didn't hesitate. He was already turning toward the door, panic written across his face.

Only at the threshold did he remember me. He paused, offering a frantic explanation.

"Paige, she's young. She's the student you sponsored. I have to be responsible for her. Once I get her calmed down, I'll come back and take care of you, okay?"

I curled my lips into a cold sneer. A man I couldn't keep was a man I no longer wanted.

"Make your choice, Joshua."

He chose to leave.

For three days, he didn't show up.

On the day of my discharge, I scrolled through my phone. Brooklyn had posted a photo: a pregnancy test with two distinct red lines.

She was pregnant.

Moments later, Joshua's feed updated. A melancholic photo with a caption that reeked of nostalgia: "If only we had met when you were eighteen..."

I stared at the screen, expression flat. I 'liked' his post.

Then I sent him a private message: a photo of my pregnancy termination report, followed by the audio and video evidence from the alleyway that night.

I locked my phone, went home, and packed my life into a suitcase.

As I moved to the door, Coco arched its back. It let out a low, warning growl and lunged at me, claws tearing at my pant leg.

In the past, I would have soothed it. This time, I kicked it away hard.

The cat yowled and skittered across the floor. I dropped the signed divorce agreement on the dining table, walked out, and slammed the door shut.