Chapter 4

Ariel Bryant POV:

He had promised to take care of me. That promise had been the bedrock of our life together. When I gave up my full-time job, he' d held my hands, looked me in the eyes, and said, "You'll never have to worry about a thing, Ari. I've got you. Always." I had believed him. I had poured every ounce of my energy into him, into our home, into the life he said he was building for us. I meticulously managed his schedule, entertained his clients with a smile even when my head was pounding, and researched architectural trends so I could be an intelligent sounding board for his late-night epiphanies. I had made myself indispensable, or so I thought. But all I had really done was make myself dependent on a man whose promises had an expiration date.

And now he wanted a divorce. He had wielded the word like a weapon, a final, fatal blow.

After he hung up, a chilling cold war descended upon our apartment. Clayton eventually came home in the early hours of the morning and slept in the guest room without a word. For days, we moved around each other like ghosts, the silence thick with unspoken accusations. Then, a week after his declaration, I received an email from the bank. My access to our joint accounts had been revoked. He was cutting me off, severing the financial ties that bound us as methodically as a surgeon excising a tumor.

At the same time, my health took a nosedive. The dull ache in my bones sharpened into a constant, debilitating pain. Dizzy spells became more frequent, and a persistent headache took root behind my eyes, a pressure that never seemed to fade. I finally made an appointment with a neurologist, a new doctor my friend Corinne had recommended, tired of being dismissed as a hypochondriac.

"Given your symptoms," Dr. Evans said, her face serious as she reviewed my chart, "the persistent headaches, the dizziness, the joint pain... I want to schedule an MRI of your brain. Just to rule anything out."

The word "brain" sent a jolt of pure terror through me. This was no longer about stress or anxiety. This was real.

I walked out of her office in a daze, clutching the referral slip in my hand. The hospital was just across the street. Might as well get it over with, I thought, moving on autopilot.

As I entered the bright, sterile lobby of the imaging center, a familiar laugh cut through the quiet hum of the room. I froze.

There, by the reception desk, stood Clayton. And beside him, her hand resting proprietorially on his arm, was Kiersten Lowe. She wasn't wearing a tailored coat this time; instead, a soft, flowing maternity blouse draped over a small, but unmistakable, baby bump.

She was pregnant.

The air rushed out of my lungs. They were having a baby. A family. The family Clayton and I had talked about for years, the one we' d put on hold so he could focus on his career.

I tried to turn, to flee before they saw me, but my body betrayed me. A wave of dizziness, more intense than any I had felt before, washed over me. The polished floor seemed to tilt, and I stumbled, my handbag slipping from my shoulder and its contents scattering across the floor. My hand shot out to break my fall, and a sharp, searing pain exploded in my palm as it scraped against the tiled ground.

"Ariel!" Clayton' s voice was sharp with alarm.

I looked down at my hand. Blood was welling up from a deep gash, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

Before Clayton could move, Kiersten let out a pained gasp, clutching her stomach. "Oh! Clay, I think-I think the baby just kicked really hard. It hurts." She looked up at him, her eyes wide with feigned distress.

Instantly, his attention snapped to her. "Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Here, let me help you." He fussed over her, his voice thick with a concern he hadn't shown me in years, completely ignoring my bleeding hand.

"You see what you did?" he snapped at me, his eyes flashing with anger. "You come barreling in here, cause a scene, and you've upset Kiersten."

"I fell, Clayton," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of pain and disbelief. "I'm bleeding."

It was only then that he seemed to notice the blood pooling on the floor. A flicker of guilt crossed his face. "Right. Here." He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and tossing it at me.

I ignored it, pushing myself up with my good hand, my whole body shaking. My appointment slip, the one for the brain MRI, had slid near Kiersten' s feet. I reached for it, my fingers brushing against the toe of her expensive-looking leather boot.

She didn't move it. Instead, she deliberately, almost imperceptibly, shifted her weight, her heel pressing down firmly on the corner of the paper. She looked down at me, a smug, contemptuous smile playing on her lips.

"Looking for this?" she murmured, her voice too low for Clayton to hear.

I yanked the paper from under her shoe, the corner tearing. The blatant cruelty of the act, the sheer malice in her eyes, sent a surge of pure adrenaline through me.

I got to my feet, my eyes locked on hers. All the pain, the betrayal, the humiliation of the past few weeks coalesced into a single, explosive moment.

My hand flew up, and the sharp, satisfying crack of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed through the silent lobby.

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