Corinne Preston POV:

Brielle Yang' s presence in the Hatfield mansion became a suffocating blanket. Arlo had explained it away with a vague mention of her apartment undergoing "unexpected renovations." I knew it was a lie. I knew it was his way of keeping her close, making her part of his domestic landscape. My home had become her playground, my sanctuary invaded.

She left her expensive scarves draped over my antique chairs, her sickly sweet perfume lingering in the air, mixing with the scent of Arlo's cologne. I found her casually reading my rare astronomy books, leaving dog-eared pages and smeared fingerprints. Every corner I turned, she was there-a constant, grating reminder of my fading status.

One afternoon, I walked into the sunroom, hoping for a moment of quiet reflection, and found them. Brielle was giggling, feeding Arlo a strawberry, playfully wiping a smudge from his lip. Their heads were close, their voices soft. It was a tableau of domestic intimacy I had never shared with him. My stomach churned.

"Corinne!" Brielle chirped, her eyes widening in feigned surprise, though she' d clearly heard my approach. "Join us! We were just discussing Arlo's new AI project. It's so fascinating, truly groundbreaking. What do you think, Arlo?" She squeezed his arm, staking her claim.

I shook my head, my voice flat. "I have work to do. Papers to review." My fellowship application, the real one, was due soon. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth. My divorce papers were already filed, the countdown begun.

Brielle' s smile tightened. "Oh, right, your studies. Still chasing those distant stars, Corinne? While Arlo here is busy building empires on Earth? Such different paths." Her words were like tiny, sharp needles, designed to prick at my ambition, to remind me of my perceived irrelevance. Arlo chuckled softly, a sound that sliced through me. It wasn't malicious, but it was an acknowledgment of her barb, a quiet agreement.

I felt the familiar urge to lash out, to defend my life's work. But I held it in, the anger a cold knot in my stomach. What was the point? He had never truly seen my passion, my intellectual fire. He had only seen the social asset, the quiet wife. Brielle' s manipulative nature was transparent to me, but Arlo, trapped in a nostalgia he mistook for love, was blind. I just had to endure a little longer. Just a few more weeks.

That night, I lay awake in my vast, cold bed. The mansion was silent, but my mind was a whirlwind of calculations, packing lists, and astrophysics equations. My escape plan was a complex orbital trajectory, meticulously plotted.

Then, the door to my bedroom creaked open. Arlo.

He walked in, his silhouette tall against the dim light from the hallway. The subtle scent of Brielle's perfume, now mingled with his own, preceded him. A phantom touch on my skin, a ghost of intimacy that was never truly mine.

"Still awake?" His voice was low, a rumble in the oppressive silence. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

"Thinking," I replied, my voice neutral. I didn't turn to face him.

"About your work?" he asked, his tone surprisingly soft. He reached out, his hand gently tracing the line of my jaw. It was a rare, almost startling gesture. My body tensed involuntarily. Then, against my will, it softened. A desperate part of me, the part that still yearned for connection, for warmth, responded to his touch like a starved plant to sunlight. It was a dangerous, fleeting comfort.

I hated myself for it. Hated the way my skin still craved his touch, even after all the neglect, all the indifference. It was a pathetic, lingering weakness I thought I had purged.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against my forehead, then my temple. "You work too hard, Corinne." His voice was a low murmur, a hypnotic vibration against my skin. He smelled of power, of expensive liquor, and of another woman.

My stomach suddenly rebelled. A wave of nausea, sharp and violent, washed over me. I gasped, pushing him away slightly, turning my head.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Just… a sudden headache," I managed, my voice strained. "And a bit of stomach flu, maybe." I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to suppress the rising bile. Stomach flu? The thought, sharp and unwelcome, sliced through my mind. I hadn't missed a single contraceptive pill. Had I? My period was… late. A cold dread began to coil in my gut.

Before I could process the terrifying thought, a loud crash echoed from downstairs, followed by Brielle' s piercing shriek. "Arlo! Help!"

He was on his feet in an instant, his concern for me vanishing like smoke. "Stay here," he ordered, his voice already distant, preoccupied. He was gone before I could respond, the door swinging shut behind him. I heard footsteps, quick and urgent, then the muffled clatter of objects being moved. A moment later, I heard the distinctive click of his hidden weapon safe, followed by his rapid descent down the main staircase.

I lay there, listening, my heart hammering. After a while, he returned. He didn' t come back into my room. Instead, I heard his voice, hushed and low, from his study. The light from under my door was now a thin sliver. Minutes later, the sliver disappeared. He was gone. With Brielle.

I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep, though sleep felt miles away.

Sometime later, I woke to a soft rustling sound. My eyes fluttered open. Arlo was standing by my desk, the beam of his phone flashlight illuminating my fellowship papers. The papers. The ones with the Chilean observatory's impressive letterhead. The ones he'd signed as a "guarantor."

My blood ran cold. He was looking at them. Really looking.

A fresh wave of nausea, this one born of pure panic, swept over me. My breath hitched in my chest.

"Chile?" His voice was quiet, almost contemplative, but it sliced through the silence like ice. He turned to me, the phone's light catching the glint in his eyes. "You said this was just a grant application. Your background check showed a pending fellowship, Corinne. To the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array."

My mind raced. "It is," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "The grant application is for the fellowship. They're intertwined." It wasn't a complete lie, not technically. But it wasn't the full truth either.

He held the papers closer, his gaze scrutinizing the details. My heart pounded so hard I thought he must hear it. He read the names, the dates, the terms. He remembered none of it. Of course, he wouldn't. He never remembered anything about my work.

"The Atacama," he repeated, a faint, dismissive curl on his lip. "A remote desert, far from everything. Are you sure that's what you want? To bury yourself in the middle of nowhere?" He scoffed gently. "Your brilliance might be wasted there, Corinne. You could do so much more here, with the resources Hatfield Tech could provide. We could build you your own private observatory, state-of-the-art. You wouldn't have to leave."

He said it so casually, as if my lifelong dream was a minor whim he could easily indulge or discard. He didn' t remember the late nights I' d spent talking about it, the articles I' d highlighted for him, the passion in my voice. He hadn't seen any of it. He' d seen only a quiet woman, easily contained.

I said nothing. Just watched him, my face a mask of polite indifference. It was clear he saw it as an eccentric hobby, something he could manage, control. He always did.

"Look," he said, turning back to the papers, a slight edge of impatience in his voice. He had already moved on. "I can arrange for you to head up our new AI research division, focusing on computational astrophysics. You'd have unlimited funding, the best team, no need to relocate to a desert. Think of the prestige."

My mind flashed back to the Hatfield family. Their suffocating influence, their endless expectations. His solution was just another gilded cage, more luxurious, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless.

Just then, the door opened, and Brielle entered, wrapped in Arlo's silk robe, her hair a charming mess. "Arlo, darling, are you coming back to bed? We have that early morning meeting with the investors, remember? And I've been feeling a little… fragile." She gave me a wide, pitying smile. "Oh, Corinne, still up? Don't let Arlo trouble you with work. He can be such a workaholic." She leaned against Arlo, her hand possessively on his chest.

Arlo' s gaze softened immediately, the concern for my "headache" a distant memory. He nodded. "Right. The investors." He stood up, placing my papers back on the desk, his attention now fully on Brielle. "We'll discuss this later, Corinne." The dismissal was clear.

"Good night, Corinne," Brielle said, her voice sugary sweet, as she led Arlo out of my room, his arm around her waist.

I waited until I heard their door click shut. Then, slowly, deliberately, I walked to my desk. I picked up the fellowship papers, the ones he had signed without truly seeing. His signature, the final stamp of his indifference, was already drying.

I found my pen. On the bottom of the last page, below his sprawling, arrogant signature, I scrawled a single word: "Filed." This wasn't just a fellowship application. This was my declaration of war. Or rather, my declaration of peace. My peace.

Corinne Preston POV:

The Chilean fellowship was a lifeline, a gleaming thread of hope woven into the fabric of my despair. When Dr. Perkins at the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array confirmed my acceptance, I didn't hesitate. The email reply was sent within minutes. This was it. My escape.

I still thought about that last night Arlo was in my bed. That desperate, fleeting moment of physical comfort, followed by the crushing nausea. It was a stark reminder of how little true intimacy we shared, how easily the physical could be mistaken for the emotional. He wanted a body next to him; I craved a soul. And in that moment, I realized exactly how little of himself he had ever truly given me.

With the fellowship secured, I began the meticulous process of shedding my old life. The house was too large, too full of ghosts. I cleared out my study, packing only the essentials: my research notes, my most cherished books, a few faded photographs of my parents. The rest, the designer clothes, the expensive jewelry, the grand furniture-it all belonged to the "Corinne Hatfield" I was leaving behind.

My lawyer had assured me the divorce proceedings were moving swiftly, thanks to Arlo' s signature on what he believed was a grant application. The final decree would be delivered after I was gone.

As I sifted through a dusty old keepsake box, my fingers brushed against a small, velvet-covered album. Our wedding album. I pulled it out. On the cover, our names, embossed in gold, mocked me. Arlo & Corinne. The paper was stiff, the images inside glossy and artificial, just like our marriage. We stood stiffly, smiling for the cameras, two strangers bound by a contract.

I lifted a page. Arlo, looking impossibly handsome, his eyes distant even then. Me, radiant but fragile, clinging to a hope that was never real. With a detached sense of finality, I tore the album in half, then into smaller pieces. The sound of ripping paper was surprisingly satisfying, a cathartic release. I watched the fragments flutter into the waste bin.

Corinne Hatfield was dead. Long live Corinne Preston.

Weeks blurred into a dizzying cycle of paperwork, farewells, and the quiet, almost clinical process of dismantling a life. I immersed myself in my work, in planning my new trajectory, leaving no room for thoughts of Arlo or his "rekindled romance." I tried not to think of them, and for the most part, I succeeded.

Until one afternoon. My phone buzzed. An unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but some instinct told me not to. "Corinne?" Arlo's voice, surprisingly hesitant, came through the speaker. "I'm outside your lab. Can you come down?"

My blood ran cold. He knew where I worked. Of course he knew. He knew everything, controlled everything. My heart hammered against my ribs. What did he want? Had he figured it out? Was the divorce discovered?

I walked out, my spine rigid. He was leaning against his gleaming black sedan, looking impossibly handsome in an expensive suit, his dark hair catching the light. He looked a little thinner, a little more tired, but no less formidable. The sharp, clean scent of his cologne, a memory that still clung to my senses, hit me as I approached.

"Arlo," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Get in," he commanded, opening the passenger door. There was no room for argument, no question. It was a directive.

I slid into the plush leather seat. The familiar scent of him, the faint lingering sweetness of Brielle' s perfume, assaulted my senses.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice low, as he pulled smoothly away from the curb.

I decided on a half-truth. The truth he already suspected. "Chile. For the fellowship. I told you."

He nodded slowly. "Right. The 'grant application'." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Brielle said you'd probably just go back to your old life, your books and your stars. She said you were always too focused on the abstract."

My jaw tightened. Brielle. Always Brielle.

"She's leaving, you know," Arlo continued, his eyes focused on the road. "Going back to California. Her venture capital firm needs her."

I said nothing. My silence was a wall. I felt him glance at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. He obviously expected a reaction, a flicker of hope, perhaps. There was none. My indifference was absolute.

He cleared his throat, tried to speak, then stopped. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, between us.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. My body was truly weary, but my mind was in overdrive. I was free. Almost. Just a few more days. Just a few more hours.

The nausea returned with a vengeance. It wasn't just in the mornings anymore. It was a constant, low-grade hum, punctuated by sharp, debilitating waves. My aversion to certain foods became extreme-the smell of coffee made my stomach revolt, and I found myself craving strangely specific things, like pickles and ice cream, at odd hours.

My period was now weeks late. My meticulous contraception, which I had never once missed, suddenly seemed to mock me. A terrifying uncertainty began to bloom into a dreadful certainty.

I bought a home pregnancy test. Then two. Then three. The pink lines, stark and undeniable, stared back at me. Positive.

My hands began to tremble uncontrollably. I was pregnant. Arlo's child. My divorce, my fellowship, my carefully constructed escape plan-all of it now hung precariously in the balance.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers flying across the screen, dialing Arlo's number. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against my ribs. I needed to tell him. I had to tell him.

As the phone rang, a familiar, distinctive ringtone, one I had set for Arlo years ago, suddenly chimed nearby. Not from my phone. From down the hall. From Brielle's temporary room.

My blood ran cold. He was here. At the mansion. With her.

I slammed my phone down, cutting the call before it connected. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't face him. Not now. Not like this.

I heard muffled voices from Brielle' s room, then Arlo' s voice, low and gentle. And a doctor' s voice. Concerned. "…high-risk pregnancy… needs absolute rest…"

High-risk pregnancy? My mind reeled. Brielle was pregnant too?

I crept closer, my heart in my mouth. Brielle' s voice, weak and fragile, drifted through the slightly ajar door. "Arlo... are you sure you're still happy about this? About us?"

"Of course, my love," Arlo' s voice, so tender it punched a hole through my chest, replied. "More than anything. This baby... it's everything."

My world tilted. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I stumbled backward, knocking into a passing nurse' s cart. A clatter of metal, a vial of something shattering on the floor.

"Mrs. Hatfield!" the nurse exclaimed, startled.

Arlo' s head snapped up. His eyes, full of a tenderness I had never seen directed at me, now narrowed, sharp and cold. "Corinne? What are you doing here?" He stepped out of Brielle's room, a protective stance.

"I... I wasn't feeling well. Thought I might have a fever," I stammered, clutching my stomach, the nausea returning with full force. A pathetic lie.

Brielle, now at Arlo's side, her face pale but her eyes sharp, peered at me with what she clearly intended as concern. "Corinne, darling, are you alright? You look a bit green. Perhaps too much late-night stargazing? You know, you really should take better care of yourself. Especially now." She paused, a glint in her eye. "Arlo and I just got the most wonderful news. Our little one is doing so well." She held up a glossy ultrasound photo, a blurry smudge on the film.

My gaze locked onto the image, my eyes burning. A tiny fetus, a nascent life. It was a mirror of my own secret, a cruel twist of fate. A profound wave of despair washed over me.

Arlo started forward, a flicker of something-confusion? guilt?-in his eyes. "Corinne, I... "

Brielle quickly put a hand on his arm, her voice soft but firm. "Darling, the doctor said you need to conserve your energy. And you have that call with the Tokyo office in an hour. Corinne will understand." She whispered something in his ear, a possessive, knowing gesture. Arlo's shoulders tensed, then relaxed. He looked at me, a conflicted expression on his face, but he didn't move.

My chest constricted, a dull ache spreading through me. He was hers. Completely. And their child, even if it was a lie, was his focus.

I turned and fled, my vision blurring. I heard Arlo call my name, a faint, desperate sound, followed by Brielle' s sharp, "Arlo, no! The doctor said-" The elevator doors slid shut, sealing me away from them, from my husband, from the shattering reality.

Outside, the cold night air hit me, but I barely felt it. I felt only a profound, desolate numbness. My flight to Chile was in two days. The grant, the dream, the new life-it was all still there. But now, I wasn't just escaping a loveless marriage. I was escaping a betrayal so deep it threatened to consume me. And now, I was pregnant. With Arlo's child. A child he didn't know about, a child he had unknowingly sacrificed for a lie.

I clutched my stomach, a protective instinct warring with a desperate fear. I was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone. And I had nowhere left to go but forward.

Corinne Preston POV:

My finger hovered over the 'Send' button of the email to Dr. Perkins, confirming my flight details. My stomach churned, a familiar wave of nausea washing over me. I pressed my other hand to my belly, a silent prayer for the tiny life growing inside me. The last thing I needed was to be held back now.

A soft chime from my phone startled me. It was Arlo' s assistant. Mr. Hatfield is requesting your presence for dinner tonight. He'll pick you up at 7. No questions, just a command. Always a command.

I stared at the message, a bitter smile twisting my lips. He didn' t even bother to call himself. Still, the hospital scene from yesterday replayed in my mind. The tenderness in his voice for Brielle, the dismissive wave of his hand towards me. What did he want now?

I found Arlo in the drawing-room, casually sipping a whiskey. He looked relaxed, almost serene. Brielle, thank God, was nowhere in sight. Seeing him, a familiar knot of tension tightened in my chest, a physiological response to his presence that I despised. My body, stupid and betraying, remembered all the nights he' d held me, even without love. I quickly averted my gaze, forcing my breathing to remain even. I had to be strong. For my child. For myself.

The phantom ache in my belly intensified. Was it fear? Or just the unrelenting nausea of early pregnancy? He hadn't noticed at the hospital, too consumed by Brielle's fabricated drama. He wouldn't notice now. Couldn't.

"Corinne," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him. "Dinner. My treat."

A chill ran through me. Dinner? Our last "dinner" had been our anniversary, a night he spent with Brielle while I waited alone. The irony was a cold stab.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice flat.

"My favorite Italian place downtown," he replied. "I thought we could talk."

My mind immediately flashed to the upscale, discreet restaurant where we' d had so many perfunctory business dinners disguised as romantic outings. Where we sat, two strangers, discussing market trends more often than our lives.

"Okay," I heard myself say, the word a soft surrender. My automatic compliance, ingrained over years of marriage, was still a reflex I couldn't entirely control. Damn it, Corinne, I silently chastised myself. You' re better than this.

But perhaps this was an opportunity. A chance to gauge his intentions, to ensure my escape route was clear. I would play the part of the compliant wife one last time. I would keep my secret safe. I would finalize my legal separation from his world, and then I would be gone. Two more days. That was all it took.

The restaurant was as exclusive and impersonal as I remembered. Arlo had booked a private dining room, a plush, velvet-lined box designed for intimate conversations that were rarely intimate. The air was heavy with the scent of truffles and old money.

He stood as I entered, pulling out my chair with a practiced courtesy. He reached out, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as I sat down. The touch, brief as it was, still sent a shiver through me. My body still remembered the phantom intimacy, even if my heart no longer did.

"Corinne," he began, his voice low, leaning forward slightly. "We need to talk about us."

Before he could continue, a sudden, jarring clang echoed from the main dining area. A flurry of hushed whispers. Then, Arlo' s personal aide, Mark, burst into our private room, his face pale and etched with urgency.

"Mr. Hatfield," Mark whispered, his voice tight. "It's Brielle. There's been an incident. She… she collapsed. High fever, abdominal pain. The doctors are saying it's a severe infection. Possible complications for the pregnancy."

My breath hitched. My ears rang. Complications for the pregnancy. The words ricocheted in my head, a dark echo of my own secret. My stomach churned, a wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm me. The pattern repeated. Always Brielle. Always her drama. Always his immediate response.

I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. His fake pregnancy, her fake illness, was now overshadowing my very real one.

Arlo was already on his feet, his chair scraping loudly across the polished floor. The tenderness in his eyes was replaced by a familiar mask of steely resolve. "Get the car ready. Immediately. And keep me updated on her condition every minute." He turned to me, his expression fleetingly apologetic. "I have to go, Corinne. I'll have Mark take you home."

He was gone before I could even nod, a whirlwind of tailored suit and urgent commands.

The next few hours were a blur. I remember snippets: the frantic rush of Mark getting me into the car, a dull ache in my lower abdomen, a growing pressure in my head. I remember the cold hard floor of the emergency room, the smell of antiseptic, the hushed voices of nurses.

I woke up in a sterile white room, a IV drip in my arm. My head throbbed. Panic flared. Had they found out? About the baby?

A kind-faced nurse bustled over. "You're awake, Mrs. Hatfield. You gave us quite a scare. Severe dehydration, low blood pressure... and some early stage pregnancy complications. We need to keep you for observation."

"Pregnancy complications?" I echoed, my voice a weak whisper. My heart leaped into my throat. The secret. It was out.

Just then, Mark, Arlo's aide, appeared in the doorway, his face grim. He was on his phone. "Yes, Mr. Hatfield. I understand. She's stable. No, the doctors are being cautious." He hung up, his eyes scanning me. "Mr. Hatfield wanted to ensure you were well. He's still with Ms. Yang." He turned to the nurse. "Mr. Hatfield's instructions are for Mrs. Hatfield to be transferred to a private suite for undisturbed rest. Ensure she has anything she needs."

He left as quickly as he arrived.

The nurse looked at me, a worried frown on her face. "You're lucky, Mrs. Hatfield. The baby is strong. But you need to take it easy. Stress is not good for a high-risk pregnancy, especially in the first trimester."

High-risk pregnancy. The words echoed again. Brielle.

Later that evening, from my luxurious private room, I overheard nurses gossiping in the hallway. "Did you see Ms. Yang's suite? Top floor, roses imported from Colombia, a personal chef. And Mr. Hatfield hasn't left her side since she was admitted. Poor woman, such a traumatic pregnancy."

My heart ached with a dull, persistent pain. He was there for her, guarding her, showering her with every luxury. While I lay here, alone, truly pregnant, and battling my own silent war. The stark contrast was a cruel testament to his priorities. Brielle' s fake drama commanded his full attention, his deepest sympathy. My reality, my true struggle, was invisible to him.

The next morning, I checked myself out against medical advice. My lawyer was already waiting, a stack of papers in hand. I went directly to her office. "Send them," I said, my voice firm. "Send the divorce papers. And tell Arlo I want nothing."

I watched as she sealed the envelope, addressed it to Hatfield Tech headquarters, and dropped it into the express mail slot. My final act of defiance. The official end. I timed it perfectly. With the express delivery, he wouldn't receive them until after my flight had already taken off. He would be too busy playing nursemaid to Brielle's fake illness to even notice.

Chile. My new life. My baby's new life. A life free from his neglect, his betrayal, his suffocating shadow. This child would know love, respect, and a mother who put them first. No more being an accessory. No more being overlooked. This time, I was choosing me. Choosing us.