Chapter 3

Clementine POV:

I got home an hour before Braden did. The apartment was dark, quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic scene I' d left behind. I sat on the sofa in the living room, the only light coming from the city glow outside the window. The silence was heavy, but it was better than the noise.

Braden' s key turned in the lock. The soft click echoed in the silence. He walked in, sighing heavily as he closed the door. He didn' t see me at first, just walked straight to the kitchen. Then he stopped.

He must have sensed me in the darkness. He walked over, came up behind me, and wrapped his arms around my waist. His chin rested on my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. He tried to nuzzle into my hair.

"Clementine," he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "About today..." He paused, searching for words.

"I want a divorce, Braden," I said, my voice flat, cutting through his attempted reconciliation. My body stiffened in his embrace.

He went rigid. His arms tightened around me, squeezing almost painfully. "Don't be ridiculous, Clementine," he scoffed, his voice strained. "It was an emergency. Leo was hurt. Isabella was distraught." He tried to dismiss it, to minimize it, as he always did. "I was just being a doctor, a friend. You know what Isabella is like, she overreacts to everything. It was nothing."

I didn't turn around. "You know it wasn't nothing, Braden. You know exactly what it was."

He frowned, his grip loosening slightly. "Isabella is just... a friend. A long-time friend. We've known each other since high school. There's nothing more to it." He tried to soothe me, his hand stroking my arm. "I'll make us dinner. Something special. How about that?"

He leaned in, trying to kiss my neck. His lips were cold. I felt nothing. He seemed to realize it too, pulling back slightly.

"You need to rest now," he said, his voice shifting to a doctor's tone. "Post-procedure care is paramount. No stress, remember? I'll handle everything."

A bitter laugh bubbled up inside me. He thought I'd gone through with it. He didn't even know. He hadn't asked. He hadn't cared enough to ask.

I remembered why I fell in love with him. He was charming, brilliant, effortlessly confident. He had this way of making me feel like I was the most important person in the world. He once told me, under the soft glow of a streetlamp after a late-night shift, that he admired my dedication, my passion for saving children. He said we were two halves of an ambitious whole, destined to change the world, one patient at a time.

Our wedding day, everyone called us a power couple. Dr. Clementine Bennett, pediatric oncologist. Dr. Braden Bennett, plastic surgeon to the stars. We were perfect, on paper.

He walked to the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans filling the silence. I watched his broad back, the way his shoulders moved as he chopped vegetables. He looked so domestic, so... normal.

"Braden," I said, my voice cutting through the kitchen noises. "I'm not accepting the clinical trial fellowship."

He paused, his knife still. "What? Why not? That's a huge opportunity." He turned, his face puzzled.

"It involves international travel, a lot of time away," I explained, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "And with us trying for a baby... it just wouldn't work."

He shrugged, resuming his chopping. "Well, that's fine. You can always apply for a less demanding position. Maybe something administrative? Or just take a break. You've worked hard, Clementine. You deserve to relax. Lean on me."

He turned, a faint smile on his face, but his eyes were narrowed, almost predatory. "We're not getting a divorce, Clementine," he said, his voice firm, unwavering. "Our family will be fine." He turned back to the stove, the sizzling oil now filling the air with the smell of garlic and regret.

I said nothing, my hand subconsciously touching my stomach, where the needle marks had once been. The phantom pain was sharp.

"A woman's greatest achievement is her children," my mother-in-law had once told me, her eyes sweeping over my medical degrees hanging on the wall. "Everything else is secondary."

If I gave up my career, if I surrendered my professional identity, what would I have left? What leverage would I have when he inevitably broke my heart again? I would become just another one of his accessories, another trophy wife in a gilded cage. I wouldn't even have the legal standing to fight for our child if it ever came to that.

His attempts at reconciliation, his promises, they felt like a deeper pit, a quicksand that would swallow me whole. The idea of him, of us, making a fresh start, felt like a cruel joke.

"Our family will be fine," he had said. But I knew better. Our family was a carefully constructed facade, beautiful to the outside world, but hollow and rotting within. And tonight, it had finally collapsed.