Hana Silva POV:

I never brought up that conversation in the café, nor the pills in the toilet. Anderson, meanwhile, became even busier after my pregnancy announcement. He worked late, took more trips, always with the same refrain: "It's only temporary, love. Once we have the baby, I'll be home. I promise. Just us, a family."

His words, once a comfort, now sounded like a mockery. I remembered Katlyn's chilling countdown: the "100-Day Farewell Tour" ending on my birthday. He wasn't working; he was playing out his perverse fantasy, meticulously planning his return to 'duty.' The thought twisted my gut. He was orchestrating his life like a play, with me as the forgotten prop. I laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

A few days later, a friend request popped up on my phone. Katlyn Pope. A part of me, the logical part, screamed to ignore it. But a darker, more perverse curiosity, fueled by a desperate need for understanding, took over. I accepted.

She didn't send a message. Instead, she opened her entire social media feed, a public gallery of her illicit affair with my husband. It was a brutal, curated expose.

There were pictures of them making pottery together, their hands intertwined, molding clay into grotesque shapes that mirrored my shattered expectations. Anderson, usually so reserved, was laughing freely, his head thrown back, a genuine smile illuminating his face. It was a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

A post from New Year's Day: "First wishes of the year from my favorite person! So blessed. #MyLove." A photo of him, his back to the camera, holding her hand, standing on a beach. A beach I recognized from our last vacation.

Then, a series of pictures from a trip to Italy. gondola rides, gelato, ancient ruins where he held her close, whispering into her ear. He'd told me he was on a business trip to Japan. The lies piled up, each one a stone crushing my chest.

I scrolled through the entire timeline, my fingers trembling, my heart a raw, bleeding mess. Each post was a new stab, a fresh wound. Katlyn was careful not to show his face directly in most photos, but I knew his broad shoulders, the way his hair fell just so, the specific watch on his wrist. It was unmistakably him.

I mentally cross-referenced dates, recalling all the times he' d claimed to be "stuck in meetings" or "working late." Each excuse now revealed itself as a meticulously crafted lie, a cover for stolen moments with another woman.

My birthday. The day Anderson always made a big deal about. It was also, according to Katlyn's posts, their "anniversary." The audacity, the sheer disrespect, made bile rise in my throat.

I remembered the night he' d tucked me into bed, whispering sweet nothings, promising me the world. Then, before I drifted off, I' d heard his stealthy footsteps, the creak of the floorboards as he moved to the guest room. The next morning, he was gone, a text message explaining an urgent out-of-town business trip. Katlyn's feed filled in the blanks. Three days. Three days they spent in the guest room, while I, his pregnant wife, slept just yards away, blissfully unaware.

I scrolled until my thumb ached, until there were no more posts to see, no more damning evidence. The last post was dated yesterday. The "100-Day Farewell Tour" had officially concluded.

Hope, a thin, fragile thread, snapped. Despair, thick and suffocating, enveloped me. Two years. He had been living this double life for two years. The disgust I felt for him, and for myself for being so blind, was overwhelming. My body, already weakened by illness, rebelled. His touch, his very presence, now made me want to vomit. I recoiled from his casual kisses, his absentminded hugs. He, oblivious, attributed my aversion to "pregnancy hormones."

"I'll be here more now, you know. For you and the baby," he'd said just this morning, stroking my still-flat stomach. The words, meant to be comforting, sounded like a cruel joke, a twisted caricature of devotion. He was merely fulfilling his "duty," as Katlyn had so bluntly put it.

He' d once promised to clear his schedule once I got pregnant, to put me and our future first. Now, "work" was his constant excuse, a flimsy veil over his secret life. Katlyn's posts, a vibrant chronicle of their shared adventures, showed just how much "work" he was doing for her.

I was not his priority; I was merely the obligation he was returning to. The second choice, the predictable ending.

This absurd charade had dragged on for over half a month. Night after night, I lay awake, the pain in my stomach a dull ache, mirroring the agony in my heart. The cancer was relentless, a cruel companion in my solitude. He was never there. I was alone, staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until sunrise.

My belly was slowly beginning to show, a cruel reminder of the life forming within, a life I might never get to hold. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't let this go on. I had to face him. He, at least, deserved to know the truth. He deserved to understand what he had lost.

Hana Silva POV:

I left the house early that morning, the divorce papers tucked into my bag, and drove to the cemetery. I needed to talk to Mom and Dad, to Grandma. It had been too long since my last visit, too long since I sought comfort in their silent presence.

"So much has happened, Mom," I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. My throat tightened, and the words caught, a knot of sorrow refusing to unravel. "I don't even know where to begin."

I tried to organize my thoughts, to tell them everything-the cancer, the baby, Anderson's betrayal. But the words wouldn't come. How could I burden them, even in death, with such pain? "Anderson... he hurt me, Mom. Really badly," I finally managed, the vague accusation a shield against the full, brutal truth. I didn't want them to worry. Not now.

I sat there for what felt like hours, the cold stone of their headstones a stark reminder of life's fragility. The decision solidified in my heart. I would tell Anderson everything. I would terminate the pregnancy, and I would divorce him. It had to be done.

The sky, as if mirroring my despair, began to weep. Fat raindrops splattered against the leaves, soon turning into a torrential downpour, accompanied by a rumble of thunder that echoed the turmoil within me. A sharp, searing pain erupted in my stomach, then my abdomen. My cancer, or my baby, or both, were protesting. I gritted my teeth, gripping my stomach, and started the arduous journey down the hill.

Anderson still wasn't home. I called him repeatedly, but the calls went straight to voicemail. The rain lashed down, blurring my vision, chilling me to the bone. Each unanswered call was another nail in the coffin of my hope. My heart grew heavy, sinking deeper into a cold, desolate place.

As dusk settled, painting the sky in bruised purples and grays, his call finally came through. I fumbled with the phone, my fingers numb with cold and fear. "Anderson? Are you home?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

A gasp, then a woman's low moan, echoed faintly from the other end. My world stopped. The sound was unmistakable. Katlyn. The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and utterly numb. It was the low, guttural growl Anderson made when he was… satisfied. A sound I knew intimately, a sound he reserved only for moments of extreme pleasure. The thunder outside raged, but it couldn't drown out the sickening sounds of their lovemaking.

The call wasn't disconnected. I was forced to listen, a silent, unwilling participant in their grotesque symphony.

"Who do you love more?" Katlyn's voice, breathy and provocative, cut through the sounds of their intimacy.

Anderson chuckled, a low, arrogant sound that made my skin crawl. "You know it's always Hana, baby." My breath hitched. He loved me? After all this?

Then he laughed again, a dark, conspiratorial sound. "But with you, it's different. In bed? It's always you. You drive me wild."

The words struck me like a thousand shards of ice, embedding themselves deep in my heart. I was freezing, numb, a hollow shell. The dial tone echoed in my ears like a drill, boring into my skull long after he' d hung up.

I stood there in the pouring rain, laughing, a wild, hysterical sound that was quickly swallowed by the storm. Then the laughter turned to tears, hot and stinging against my cold cheeks. When a heart dies, I thought, even thunder becomes silent.

A blur of pain, then darkness. I woke up in a stark white room. A kind but somber-faced doctor stood over me. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Humphrey," she began, her voice soft. "We lost the baby."

My eyes remained dry. My heart, it seemed, had no more tears to shed. It was over. The baby was gone. The doctor looked at me, expecting a breakdown, tears, a demand for explanations. But there were none. I had braced myself for a different kind of ending, a confrontation, a painful farewell. Instead, the universe had simply taken it away, quietly, brutally.

The baby, our baby. Gone. Just like that. A cold, empty space in my womb, a hollow echo in my heart. I had carried a life, a dream, within me. Now it was just… gone.

I curled up in the bed, finally letting the dam break. A gut-wrenching sob tore through me, followed by another, and another. Years of silent suffering, of pretending, of holding on, of trying to be strong – it all came crashing down. The pain, the betrayal, the fear, the loneliness, the loss of my baby, the terrifying reality of my own impending death. It all poured out in a torrent of anguish. The nurse, startled, hovered at the door, unsure how to intervene.

My phone buzzed. Anderson. He wanted to know if I' d made it home safely. He apologized for not being there, for losing track of time. He promised to make me soup. My vision swam through tears, but his words were sickeningly clear. He was still playing the devoted husband.

I laughed, a broken, cracked sound. I must be going insane. I' d just lost my baby, and my husband was sending me empty reassurances from his mistress's bed. I picked up the phone, my fingers still stained with the drying tears, and typed a reply.

"I' m at my mother' s place," I wrote, a lie that came surprisingly easy. "Needed some space. I' m fine."

Lies. They were so easy to tell. No wonder he was addicted to them. My face was a blank mask, my eyes devoid of emotion. Anderson, the man I married, had ceased to exist. He was a monster, a cruel joke. He had used my name, my body, our future, as a prop in his tawdry little sex games. I was nothing more than a cheap thrill, a topic for pillow talk.

No. No more. I wouldn't waste another second on him. No more hope, no more tears.

Hana Silva POV:

My mother's old house was quiet, a welcome respite from the chaos that had consumed my life. I started to learn how to live alone, how to navigate the silence that now filled my days. It was strange, severing a bond that had been seven years in the making. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I would whisper Anderson' s name, a ghost of an old habit.

But then the memories would come, unbidden, like a cruel movie reel. I saw him at the university track meet, a blur of muscle and determination, crossing the finish line first. He' d scooped me into his arms, spinning me around, his laughter echoing in my ears. He was my hero.

I remembered the alley behind the campus, late at night. Two men, their faces leering, closing in on me. Then, a flash of movement, a powerful kick, and Anderson was there, shielding me, holding me tight, whispering reassurances into my hair. He had secretly followed me, worried about my safety. He was my protector, my knight in shining armor.

How could that boy, so full of light, so genuinely kind, be the man who now filled me with such utter disgust? The Anderson of my past, radiant and true, was buried beneath layers of deceit and manipulation. The Anderson of today was a hollow imitation, a master of lies. He kept repeating those empty promises, the ones he must have whispered to Katlyn too. Each word was a fresh wave of nausea.

I clenched my fists, the memory of his recent embrace, his performative concern, making my stomach churn. I hated him. I hated this new him.

My doctor's appointment was a few days later, and when I returned home, Anderson was there, stretched out on the sofa, looking entirely too comfortable. A cold dread seeped into my bones. He knew I was usually careless, leaving my medications scattered around. My stomach tightened.

"Hana, you're back!" he exclaimed, jumping up. He pulled me into a hug, his lips brushing my forehead. "I missed you so much. How's our little peanut doing?"

I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. His lies were so effortless, like breathing. How could he embody such concern while simultaneously orchestrating my downfall? How could he pretend to be jealous if another man looked at me, while secretly building a life with another woman?

"I'm fine," I said, pulling away gently. "I prefer to be alone right now. You being here just disrupts my rest." My words were a deliberate shield. I knew he was constantly out with Katlyn, painting a rosy picture of their 'farewell tour.'

I spotted a stray pill bottle on the coffee table. With feigned nonchalance, I walked over and picked it up.

He paused, watching me. Then he reached for me again, pulling me into a hug, his chin resting on my head. "I'm sorry, love. I know I've been absent. I'll make it up to you, I promise." He inhaled deeply, burying his face in my hair. "I' ll make everything up to you."

I squeezed the pill bottle so tightly my knuckles turned white. This wasn't remorse. This was convenience. The 100 days were over, and he was back to playing the doting husband. That was all it was.

His eyes, sharp despite their feigned tenderness, suddenly fixed on the white bottle in my hand. My heart hammered against my ribs. "What's that?" he asked, his voice casual.

"Just some extra vitamins," I lied, my voice wavering slightly. "For the pregnancy."

He didn't press. He just pulled me closer, rubbing my arms. "You're so cold. Let's get you warmed up." He led me to the fireplace, building a small fire. "Make sure you take those vitamins, alright? And call a driver if you're ever not feeling well. Don' t go wandering around alone."

I nodded, feeling like a puppet, my head bobbing in agreement. My lie was flimsy, pathetic. The label on the bottle, a potent anti-emetic, screamed the truth. But he didn' t see it. He didn' t notice the weight I'd lost, the dark circles under my eyes, the tremor in my hands. The old Anderson, the one who could read my every nuance, was gone. His heart, his mind, his focus-they were elsewhere.

I let out a silent, weary sigh. I didn't need to be nervous around him anymore. He saw nothing. He felt nothing.