Seattle's rainy season felt endless.

I was in the hospital for a threatened miscarriage.

That same day, my husband Griffin Montgomery's phone blew up with over a hundred missed calls.

They were all from Briar. An intern at his company, a girl who claimed to have severe anxiety and suicidal tendencies.

As the phone buzzed nonstop, I weakly asked if he needed to call her back. He shot back, irritated, "Just ignore it. She'll only keep calling. Doesn't she have parents? God, this is so annoying."

However, a mere ten minutes later, the girl posted a photo of herself in a white dress on Instagram.

She was standing on the ledge of the Kerry Park observation deck.

The caption read: "If I fall from here, will I become the wind? Maybe then, people won't hate me anymore."

Griffin glanced at it and let out a derisive sneer. "Become the wind? What kind of melodramatic teen drama is she starring in?"

But his restlessness betrayed him. He paced the hospital room for the next hour, a caged animal, before finally snatching his car keys and rushing out, tossing over his shoulder, "I'm going to check on her. I'll be right back."

That night, I started hemorrhaging and was rushed into the emergency room.

When the doctor asked if they should do everything they could to save the fetus, I glanced at the empty spot beside me and answered quietly, "No. Let him go."

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1

When the anesthesia wore off and I woke up, it was the next afternoon. Outside the window, Seattle's signature gloom lingered.

I raised a hand, stroking my flat abdomen. The motion made the sleeve of my hospital gown slip down, revealing the back of my hand—a mottled mess of bruises and needle marks.

I had always been terrified of needles, but to save our child, I had endured every kind of injection to prevent the miscarriage.

Yet in the twenty-seven hours since I’d been wheeled into the operating room, Griffin had been a ghost.

As if on cue, the phone on my bedside table lit up.

It was a message from Griffin, but not about me or the baby. It was a short text: "Briar was out in the cold too long last night and had a severe anxiety attack. Her parents aren't in Washington and her good-for-nothing brother doesn't care about her, so I had to stay with her at the ER for observation. She's such a handful."

Though he called her a handful, his tone held a note of fondness he probably didn't even hear in his own voice.

I stared at the message and replied, "Got it."

Then, I opened Instagram.

Briar had posted a new update with the caption: "My knight."

In the corner of her selfie, a man's hand was captured in the frame, gently tucking the corner of her blanket.

I recognized it instantly. It was Griffin's hand.

Ironically, the ring finger where his wedding band should have been was bare, marked only by a faint indentation.

A bitter smile twisted my lips. I changed my profile picture to a solid black square and commented on her post with a prayer hands emoji.

Less than a minute later, the comment was deleted. My phone rang. It was Griffin.

"Rowan, what the hell was that? I already told you Briar doesn't have family here to take care of her. She's sick. I'm just looking after her as her boss, doing my duty. Besides, she's pitiful enough as it is. Can you not be so passive-aggressive at a time like this?"

Pitiful. That was Griffin's favorite word for her.

When that girl first joined the company, she couldn't even figure out the coffee machine. She was clumsy and constantly attached to his hip, pestering him with questions.

He used to share amusing anecdotes from work, but somewhere along the way, she became the star of all of them.

"Rowan, that intern can't even use a bottle opener. Seriously, how has she survived this long?"

"Briar screwed up a report today and got me reamed out by the board! I swear, I'm telling HR to get rid of her next week!"

He always said he would request to have her transferred, but until she "got sick," she clung to him like a vine.

Then, I watched as he changed her contact name in his phone from "Troublemaker" to "Poor Little Thing."

With all the signs laid out so clearly before me, how could I possibly pretend not to see?

I listened, too numb to even argue. I let out a soft laugh. "Mm, I understand."

He clearly hadn't expected my composure. Assuming I was playing some kind of mind game, his tone softened. "Alright, I'll go get those macarons you love from Le Panier, okay? Just..."

Before he could finish, I heard him on the other end, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. "There, there, it's okay, I'm here..."

Just like that, his attention was stolen. I could hear his muffled voice through the phone. "Why didn't you say something sooner? Does it still hurt?"

Briar sniffled softly. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

He sounded terribly worried as he chided her, "You silly girl, why didn't you just wake me up?"

"I'm sorry for causing you so much trouble, Griffin... Maybe I should just disappear..." Briar's voice trailed off, thick with sorrow.

"Don't say such foolish things," Griffin said, his voice aching with sympathy.

After that, I heard him sigh and continue to whisper comforting words to her. The phone must have moved farther away, because his voice became a distant hum.

It didn't matter. I didn't want to listen anyway.

Though my stomach had been growling moments before, the disgust churning in my gut at how he doted on her killed what little appetite I had.

I hung up the phone.

Just then, a nurse pushed the door open to remove the IV catheter from my hand.

"You're all set for discharge, Mrs. Montgomery. But you've just had a D&C, so you'll need to take it easy and focus on your recovery, alright?"

I looked out at the rain-streaked window and replied softly, "I know."

In the Uber on the way home, I forwarded the divorce papers we had drawn up ages ago to my lawyer and friend, Maya Singh.

I sent a message: "Maya, if the agreement looks solid, please print two copies ASAP. The sooner this is over, the better."

A moment later, Maya replied, "Got it."

Most of the clauses were supplemental to our prenuptial agreement, which Griffin himself had a lawyer draft to reassure me. If he cheated or fell out of love, he would sign over management of his company and the majority of our shared assets.

Back then, his eyes had been full of adoration, certain he would never break his vows.

But time corrodes all things, even the most heartfelt vows.

It was already six in the evening when I got back to our lakeside villa in Medina.

The unopened organic groceries we had left in the kitchen two days ago had rotted in the heat, filling the house with a sour, putrid stench.

It was obvious Griffin hadn't been home at all.

I forced myself to shower, took painkillers for the cramps, then retreated to the guest room and collapsed into a heavy sleep.

In the middle of the night, the front door was thrown open. I heard someone rush through the master bedroom towards my door, and then—

Bang!

The guest room door was kicked open.

The next moment, the harsh overhead light flickered on. Griffin stood there, his brow furrowed in anger.

"Rowan, are you out of your mind? I'm your husband! You can't just check out of the hospital without a word! Do you have any idea how worried I was when I got there and you were gone?"

When my eyes adjusted, I saw him standing in the doorway, panting, clutching a bag of cold, high-end takeout. His expression was a mask of icy accusation.

And from behind him, a timid figure appeared. It was Briar, draped in a men's hoodie several sizes too big, her pale face framed by dark hair. I noticed she wasn't wearing pants, her long, slender legs stark white in the light.

I recognized the hoodie immediately. It was a limited-edition UW one I had given Griffin for his birthday.

Funny, I remembered him telling me he'd lost it just last month.

He didn't notice his lie had been exposed. He just saw my silence and grew angrier, hurling the bag of food at me. I had no time to dodge as a container burst open, splattering greasy sauce across my duvet and skin.

Griffin pointed a trembling finger at me, his words laced with accusation: "The doctor said you have a high-risk pregnancy and could miscarry at any moment! Do you not even care about our child? Rowan, can't you be a little more mature?"

"I looked for you for half an hour! Would it have killed you to send a single text saying you were discharged?!"