Chapter 3

A nurse nearby sighed, her voice full of admiration.

"Apparently, to make Scarlett feel secure, they sleep together every single night — just trying to have a baby as soon as possible."

"And last time, Scarlett said she thought he was unclean, so Miller dragged in several doctors to run tests on him. He even booked cosmetic treatments."

"That's not even the half of it. Apparently Scarlett fell in love with the house where Miller's wife lives, so he's been telling people the company needs financing and he has to sell the place — he's moving his wife to some apartment near the hospital."

A wave of cold went through me.

A year ago, Miller told me the company needed capital to expand.

He borrowed from the bank, but it still wasn't enough.

I couldn't stand watching him get pressured and drunk at business dinners just to close deals.

So I suggested selling our house myself. We rented a smaller place near the hospital to make it easier to visit my mother.

That house had been our first home as a married couple. Letting it go wasn't easy.

Miller held me and promised that once the money came back, he would get us an estate — something even better.

I didn't want him to struggle.

I used the inheritance my father had left me to cover our living expenses.

And I went back to work.

The nurses' voices drifted in from down the hall as they walked.

"Apparently he even set up a flower shop across from the hospital just for her."

I looked through the rain at the little shop, still open, its lights on.

I laughed, but it came out wrong. The tears fell before I could stop them.

Every morning, I stopped by that shop on my way in. Bought a fresh bouquet.

The staff told me the owner was an old friend of Miller's, and that was why they always gave me a discount.

When Miller found out, his eyes flickered. He gave a vague, noncommittal answer that I took as a yes.

I pushed open the door. The girl at the counter clearly recognized me.

"You were just here this morning. Another bouquet already?"

I looked around the shop.

The lighting, the layout of the sink, the placement of the display cooler — all of it was impossibly familiar.

Early in our relationship, Miller asked me what I would do if money didn't matter.

I said I wanted to open a flower shop.

I'd pulled out a thick stack of design sketches I'd been working on since middle school. It was the dream I'd held onto for years.

My father called it a waste of time. Miller sat with me and helped me refine every drawing.

But after we married, my time was swallowed whole — attending events with other executives' wives, managing the household staff, playing the role of the perfect hostess.

On top of all that, I had my own job.

There was nothing left for dreams. The anger sat in my throat, hard and immovable.

The counter girl spoke suddenly.

"Did you do something to our manager?"

"Honestly, I'd apologize if I were you. A sick person breathing in flowers grown with those special nutrients every single day — that can't be good for you."

I dug my nails into my palm. "What do you mean?"

What nutrients? What was she talking about?

The girl glanced up at the security camera, then pulled me into the corner.

"Those flowers just cause allergies. It's nothing serious."

"But the manager told us — you tried to drug her husband and get pregnant by him, and luckily he was smart enough to trick you into signing a fake marriage certificate."

"She said someone helped her get rid of your baby too."

"I don't know, though. You seem like a decent person to me. You even bring us homemade pastries."

The sonogram. It rushed back to me. I grabbed the girl's hand.

"Last May — was your manager in Switzerland?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, her husband takes her abroad every month because she loves to travel."

"I heard that after college, he found her working at a club and brought her home. Took care of her ever since."

Black spots flickered at the edges of my vision. I steadied myself against the wall.

Last April, I was in a car accident.

I had gone through round after round of hormone injections. IVF. It finally worked.

And then the baby was gone.

I called Miller a hundred times.

He was in Switzerland. He said the deal was difficult, that the other party wouldn't budge.

When I finally saw him again, I was crying so hard I could barely speak. I asked him why he wasn't there when I needed him most.

I fell apart after that. He was the one who stayed, who walked me back from the edge, who refused to leave my side for even an hour — as though he were atoning for something.

Now I understood what he was atoning for.

He had already been with Scarlett. The whole time.

And I never suspected a thing.

I took out my phone and sent the photo of our marriage certificate — the one pinned to the top of my Instagram — to a friend.

The reply came back fast.

Fake. Who still counterfeits documents in this day and age?

That was it, then. Settled.

Every time I'd gone back — it had all been for nothing.

I had done it to myself.

I'd hoped for something that was never real.

The last small piece of hope I'd been holding onto finally went out.

I knew now exactly which moment I needed to return to.