After I got pregnant, Ethan forgot to go to the courthouse for our marriage license—again. The seventh time. I stood alone outside the City Hall that afternoon, waiting in the Alabama heat, when a drunk driver swerved onto the sidewalk. The impact threw me against the curb. As pain ripped through my abdomen, I knew I was losing the baby. In that moment, heart shattered, I typed out a single message to Ethan: "It's over." His assistant Chloe Beaumont ran straight into his arms, sobbing. "It's all my fault. I kept begging you to stay with me—Emily must've been furious." Ethan held her close, stroking her hair. "Don't cry," he murmured. "I never really wanted to marry her anyway. And now that the baby's gone... well, it's probably for the best." Chloe sent me the recording that night, voice dripping with smug triumph. When I confronted him, Ethan just shrugged. "She's happy. That's all that matters." But the day I actually left—packed my bags and walked out—he followed me down the street, dropping to his knees on the pavement, forehead pressed to the asphalt, begging me to come back. ...... "Why didn't you cook dinner?" Ethan shoved open the front door of our Birmingham bungalow reeking of bourbon and expensive cologne. I lay sprawled on the couch, scrolling through a show on my phone. In the old days, I would've jumped up the second I heard his key in the lock—rushing to take his coat, pour him sweet tea, warm his favorite gumbo. But tonight, I barely glanced up before returning to my screen. He froze mid-step, hand outstretched as if expecting me to take it. Then, as if remembering something, he fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap-looking necklace, no box, no ribbon. "It's your anniversary gift," he said, voice thick with drink. "I didn't forget. Just had to entertain clients. Now go fix me something to eat—I'm starving." As he stepped closer, the stench of whiskey hit me, laced with a floral perfume I recognized instantly. Chloe's signature scent—something light and expensive, the kind rich Montgomery girls wore to garden parties. The nerve of him. Cheating all night, then coming home demanding a hot meal like I was his personal cook. "Did you hear me?" he snapped. When I didn't move, he pulled out his phone and sent a notification that buzzed against my thigh: $200,000 transferred to my account. That was us now. Our entire relationship reduced to transaction logs. Six years of love—once filled with late-night talks about dreams and recipes—had dwindled to canned replies and cold cash. "I had this custom-picked for you," he added, softening slightly. "If you don't like it, go pick out your own. Money's already sent." I kept scrolling, thumbs gliding over the screen. He huffed, stomping around the kitchen like a petulant child, slamming cabinets to remind me he existed. After a minute, I looked up. "When should I move out?" I asked calmly. "What are you talking about?" He turned, eyes lighting up—hopeful, for half a second. "So your assistant can move in," I said, voice steady despite the acid burning in my chest. I was drowning in grief. But I wouldn't let him see it. "You're being ridiculous again," he shot back, tossing his blazer onto the floor. "I told you—I lost track of time at work. The gift's here. Chloe has nothing to do with this. Now go cook. There's a limit to how much I'll tolerate your tantrums." He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving his phone glowing on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a photo: Ethan and Chloe, arms wrapped around each other, grinning like newlyweds on a beach in Gulf Shores. Not just any photo—they'd made it his lock screen. I'd seen their pictures before. But this? This was a declaration. Six years ago, Ethan had dragged me into every social event, proudly introducing me as his girlfriend, posting us everywhere online. "My girl," he'd say, possessive and proud. Over time, though, he'd grown distant—calling my requests to go public "embarrassing" or "in poor taste." Now, he couldn't wait to show the world Chloe Beaumont. She came from old Southern money—the Beaumonts of Montgomery. Back when Ethan was disowned by his family and struggling to launch Caldwell Tech Ventures, her parents had forbidden her from seeing him. "A fallen heir with no prospects," they'd called him. Everything changed the day his startup took off. The Caldwells welcomed him back with open arms—and the Beaumonts sent their "little princess" to work as his personal assistant, claiming it would "build her character." Day after day, she appeared in his office. Childhood acquaintances turned confidants. Confidants turned something far more intimate. And now, she was the one he held when I bled out our child on a courthouse sidewalk.