Chapter 3

But that didn't mean he couldn't force himself to find comfort in his own excuses. "That day, I made it perfectly clear," he said, voice low but firm. "She was crying after being yelled at by the other company. Her parents sent her to me, so I had to take care of everything for her." "As for you—a pregnant woman—what were you even doing standing at the door? Have you ever stopped to consider your own flaws? Maybe the baby decided you weren't fit to be a mother... that's why he left." The words pierced deep, sharp as glass in my chest. But I forced a smile onto my face. "You're right," I said softly. "I'm not fit to be a mother." I never would've believed Ethan Caldwell capable of saying something like that—not the boy who'd once knelt in the campus quad with sun in his eyes and a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand, asking me to be his girlfriend. Back then, his earnestness had shaken something loose in me, something I didn't know I'd been holding onto. We'd fought often in the early days—about money, about class, about the chasm between my modest roots in Dothan and his old-money world in Birmingham. But Ethan always bent first. Even when his parents cut him off, he flew back from London again and again, just to hold me. Our love had been stitched together with boarding passes and cold text messages—fragile, but real. After graduation, he started Caldwell Tech Ventures. We lived in a cramped apartment near downtown Birmingham, surviving on instant noodles and hope. One night, we heard screams from next door. Our neighbor, Nora Ellis—thin as a reed, barely eating—had miscarried from malnutrition and exhaustion while trying to please her boyfriend. Ethan and I rushed her to the hospital. Outside the ER, tears streaming down his face, he gripped my hands and swore he'd protect me forever. "If it's you or the baby," he whispered, "I choose you. Always." That night, I believed him. Now, years later, the same man stood before me, blaming me for our child's death. The next morning, furious over my silence, Ethan left early to pick up Chloe Beaumont. I didn't stop him. Once the door clicked shut behind him, I packed my bags and walked out of that house for good. A cold house couldn't cage a soul that longed for freedom. And love wasn't a license for Ethan to keep taking from me without giving anything back. To heal, I booked a one-way ticket to the Cheaha Mountain Retreat in Talladega National Forest—a week among pines and mist, where the only voices were wind and water. For the first time in months, I breathed. When I returned to Birmingham, I went straight to UAB Medical Center for a full checkup. Miraculously, the crash had left no lasting damage. Dr. Sarah Kline shook her head in wonder. "Ms. Harper, your recovery is remarkable. I'll prescribe some herbal tonics to rebuild your blood and energy. You'll be able to conceive again soon." I touched my stomach gently. Once, a tiny heartbeat had pulsed beneath my palm. Now, nothing. Not even a scar. "Oh, and those recipes you developed?" Dr. Kline added warmly. "I've shared them with dozens of post-op patients. They're thriving. Thank you—you solved a real problem for us." She meant the meals I'd spent years perfecting for Ethan—low-sugar, gut-soothing Southern dishes like turmeric-spiced gumbo and collard greens with quinoa. I'd tailored every bite to his stomach issues, his low blood sugar. Of course they worked. I'd poured my love into every pot. Now, at least, that love was feeding people who appreciated it—not a man who called me unworthy. As I stepped out of the clinic into the humid Alabama afternoon, I saw them: Chloe Beaumont and Eleanor Caldwell. Chloe's designer sundress and Eleanor's pearl necklace gleamed under the hospital awning. They froze when they spotted me. "Oh, Emily!" Chloe cooed, eyes wide with false concern. "Are you feeling all right? You look pale." Eleanor didn't bother with pretense. Her lips curled. "Skipping another family dinner to play invalid? If you cared so much about your health, why couldn't you protect my grandson?" The cruelty landed like a slap. People who hated you always knew exactly where to strike. "Aunt," Chloe chirped, batting her lashes at me with a smug little wink, "don't be so hard on her. She's grieving too. Come on—we're here for your appointment." Before I could respond, Chloe tugged Ethan's arm. He'd appeared silently behind them, frowning. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice tight. "Trying to cause trouble again?" I lifted my wrist, showing the fading bruises from the crash. "What's the matter, Mr. Caldwell? Did you buy the hospital too? Or are you just mad I'm using my own insurance to see a doctor?" His eyes darkened, drifting to my stomach. Chloe caught the glance. "Ethan, let's go," she urged, pulling him toward the elevator. "Your mom's waiting. She's been having stomach issues—luckily, this place has those amazing recipes Emily used to make. I'll cook them for you both." She dragged him away, cutting off whatever he'd meant to say. Eleanor sniffed in disdain. Ethan turned back just before the elevator doors closed. "Emily," he called, voice low but edged with warning, "this little rebellion of yours has gone on long enough. I let you have your ‘space'—consider it your vacation. But it's time to come home. Today... Mom finally agreed to our wedding." It should've been good news. Instead, I laughed—a short, bitter sound—and walked away. He watched me go, glancing back three times before the elevator swallowed him whole. I felt his gaze like a weight, but I didn't look back. Now, the only ties left between us were the house in Mountain Brook and his company shares. We'd bought it together when we got engaged. To silence the Caldwells' whispers that I was a gold-digger, I'd paid half the down payment and handled every detail of the renovation myself. If we were ending this, we'd end it clean—down to the last dollar, the last brick.