Three years into our marriage, my husband suddenly embraced absolute independence, insisting I handle everything on my own.
When I was injured in a car accident, he made me go to the hospital alone.
When my mother was hospitalized with terminal cancer, he handed me a plane ticket:
“This is the only way I can help you.”
I developed depression after years of his emotional neglect. He tossed the diagnosis into the trash and said coldly:
“Being dramatic is being dramatic. What’s wrong with you? Depression is just the weak pretending to suffer.”
The night my mother died, my father couldn’t bear the grief and jumped to his death. I begged him to come back and help with the funeral, but he snapped:
“Would your parents come back to life if I came back? They’re gone, yet you still haven’t learned to be independent? Do you expect me to carry you forever?”
I handled the funeral alone and collapsed at the cemetery.
When I woke up, I learned I had miscarried. Broken, I attempted suicide by cutting my wrists.
On the way to the emergency room, I saw him clinging to his secretary, pleading with the doctor to treat the blisters on her feet from her heels.
The secretary told him to stop, but he, eyes filled with tears, said:
“With me, you’ll never need to be independent. If something hurts, just say it—I’m here.”
At that moment, I finally understood.
He hadn’t become an advocate for independence; he had simply stopped loving me.
But why, after losing everything, would he cry and beg me to keep being his innocent, carefree princess?
——
The lights in the emergency room were blinding.
The doctor picked up my blood-stained phone and dialed my emergency contact for the tenth time before it was answered.
“Is this Adriana Spencer’s husband? Your wife attempted suicide and lost too much blood. She’s in critical condition, and we need your signature immediately—” Lucas Sterling cut him off impatiently:
“She’s not a child. Let her sign it herself.”
A soft voice in the background called to him:
“Mr. Sterling, I’m fine on my own. You should go back and stay with her…”
He gently replied:
“No need. She’s very independent, unlike you—someone who always needs to be cared for.”
The doctors exchanged looks and quickly covered the stethoscope, afraid I would hear this piercing conversation.
But Lucas’s cold voice still came through:
“Tell Adriana that if an adult can’t live independently, then her staying alive is a joke.”
The doctor urgently explained my condition again.
“And she just had a miscarriage…” he added. Lucas let out a cold laugh:
“Wrist-cutting suicide? She’s terrified of pain. How would she cut her wrists? How much did she pay you to play along with her?”
His voice dripped with mockery:
“Someone who really wants to die won’t give anyone a chance to save her. Adriana, I know you’re listening. If you want to die, then die in front of me. I’ll collect your body myself.”
The line went dead.
The doctor tried calling again, but the call wouldn’t connect.
Still, that cold, merciless voice echoed through the disinfectant-filled air.
The monitor blared a sharp alarm.
My blood pressure kept falling, and my consciousness slipped into darkness.
With the last of my strength, I grabbed the doctor’s hand:
“If I die… donate my body and organs…”
I don’t need Lucas to collect my body.
With how obsessed he was with my so-called independence, he would only think my death inconvenienced him.
The ECG spiked wildly.
“If I can live…”
I will leave him forever.
Before I could finish, darkness swallowed me.
When I woke again, the doctors and nurses were all in tears:
“I thought you…”
"Ms. Spencer, no matter what happened, no matter what you've endured, we hope you stay strong."
"We may never fully understand your pain, but remember, God didn’t take you because you deserve better. You need to face the hurt, not give up your life..."
The doctors and nurses lined up, giving me gentle hugs one after another.
Each warm embrace sent a faint spark of life into my numb heart.
If, at my breaking point, Lucas had given me even a single hug, I wouldn’t have ended up like this...
When we were dating, he did everything for me, treating me like a princess.
He was the one who vowed at our wedding that he would be my lifelong support:
"Adriana, I will cherish you forever. You only need to be yourself—leave everything else to me." The vow remains, but the man who made it has already changed.
During my entire hospitalization, Lucas never showed up.
No calls, no messages.
Only the monitor’s steady beeping kept me company.
I spent most of the time with my eyes closed, as if sleeping could turn everything into a forgotten dream.
But I was awakened by voices in the corridor.
"Women are all the same, yet their lives are so different."
"That woman yesterday—heard she just had a small blister on her heel, and her husband was terrified, even feeding her water himself."
Another lowered her voice:
"It’s true, comparison hurts. I thought my husband was good, but compared to hers, he's nothing. I really envy his wife..."
Images flickered in my mind—my mother’s tearful gaze, my father’s falling silhouette, the doctor apologizing for the miscarriage.
And then, the scene of Lucas holding Lydia Young, eyes red, saying, "With me, you’ll never need to be independent."
My chest filled with a cold, suffocating stillness.
Even tears refused to fall.
If they knew I was Lucas’s wife, would they still envy her?
The attending physician came to check on me, and seeing I still wouldn’t open my eyes, quietly shook his head.
He sighed to the nurse:
"Notify psychiatry to intervene."
This time, I didn’t reject counseling, nor did I refuse medication.
For three years after our marriage, Lucas had insisted we start trying for a baby, but perhaps because of the stress, I couldn’t get pregnant.
Even after being diagnosed with depression, and the doctor firmly telling me to take medication and wait until I recovered, I stubbornly fought against the emotions swallowing me.
Back then, I believed that if I just got pregnant, I could salvage the marriage that had suddenly fallen apart.
But after I broke down, struggled to heal myself, and tried everything to conceive, the child quietly slipped away.
As if even the child knew this crumbling marriage was no longer worth clinging to.
After taking antidepressants, the crushing weight inside me eased.
I stopped hiding in sleep and called a law firm:
"Help me draft a divorce agreement." On the day I was discharged, I took the signed agreement and proactively contacted Lucas.
Maybe because I hadn’t clung to him for half a month, he actually answered my video call right away.
Behind him were the floor-to-ceiling windows of a luxury hotel, the river view glowing outside.
He wore a bathrobe, droplets still sliding from his hair.
Seeing the hospital behind me, he lifted a brow, his voice dripping with disdain:
"Really committing to this act, aren’t you? Aren’t you afraid of catching all sorts of germs?"
He leaned back lazily on the sofa, and through the glass behind him, I could vaguely see a woman’s figure moving.
The nurse changing my dressing looked up, unable to hide her outrage:
“Sir, your wife is newly pregnant and—” Lucas suddenly straightened, his expression flipping instantly to intense, unwavering concern:
“Adriana, you’re pregnant? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice was urgent and sincere, even trembling:
“I’m sorry, it’s my fault! Stay there, I’ll cancel the most important project and rush to the hospital right now!”
His earnest tone made it seem as if the man who told me to die outside the emergency room had never existed.
I sneered inwardly and hung up immediately.
Less than thirty minutes later, the ward door opened softly.
But it wasn’t Lucas.
Lydia entered holding a huge bouquet of lilies and a luxury-brand gift bag, walking toward me with a gentle smile.
“Madam, Mr. Sterling was extremely worried when he heard you were pregnant, so he asked me to come take care of you.”
“These flowers and gifts were supposed to be a birthday present from him. Consider them a surprise for you; I don’t really like them anyway…”
She placed the bouquet and gift bag on the bedside table, then deliberately brushed her half-wet hair aside, revealing an unmistakable, intimate red mark on her neck.
I closed my eyes, trying to force away the unbearable images flooding my mind.
Lydia suddenly leaned in:
“Adriana, I didn’t expect that after taking birth control pills for so many years, you could still get pregnant…”
My eyes snapped open. Her malicious gaze was fixed on my lower abdomen:
“I just wonder if this child will live to be born… or even be normal…”
Understanding everything in an instant, I raised my hand and slapped her hard.
She covered her swelling cheek, her eyes instantly filling with tears. Her voice rose in wounded grievance:
“Madam, I know you hate that Mr. Sterling wants you to be independent, but he’s doing it for your own good!”
“He doesn’t want people to be independent because he doesn’t care—he loves you so much that he’s strict with you! He wants you to grow, to be stronger!”
She stepped closer, tears trembling in her eyes:
“You’re going to be a mother now, please be more mature, okay? You don’t know how much pressure Mr. Sterling faces every day to earn money and support the family…”
Her voice broke, as if she were the one suffering:
“He really has it hard. Please stop putting pressure on him, okay?”
“Get out,” I cut her off coldly.
Lydia suddenly lunged forward and seized my injured wrist.
I instinctively pulled back, but she twisted the motion, shoving herself away with my hand and letting out a dramatic scream as she fell backward, crashing into the bedside table.
A loud bang echoed.
The lilies scattered across the floor, petals and stems in disarray.
She sat on the ground, looking up at me with watery eyes.
“Madam, I came to care for you out of kindness. Why did you hit me?” At that moment, the ward door burst open.
Lucas saw the pitiful Lydia on the floor, and his expression turned pitch-black.
He hurried over and helped her up, his voice panicked, more nervous than I had ever heard:
“Lydia? Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?”
He checked her anxiously from head to toe, as if she were some delicate treasure.
