Chapter 3

He froze. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes — shock, guilt, maybe even fear.

Then Clarissa leaned closer, one manicured hand protectively over her belly, whispering something into his ear.

Eden’s jaw tightened. He turned back to me.

“Lucia,” he said flatly, “you don’t need to lie just to get my attention.”

Then, with a firmness that cut through the hallway air, he added, “No matter what happens, I’m not leaving Clarissa.”

And they walked away. Together.

Not once looking back.

That was the moment my heart finally broke — cleanly, quietly, completely.

A child who was never wanted didn’t deserve to be born into this mess.

A marriage already cracked beyond repair wasn’t worth saving.

The next thing I remember was the cold brightness of the hospital ceiling.

Then the pain. Then nothing.

When it was over, I went home.

The house was silent — the kind of silence that hums, heavy and hollow.

Eden hadn’t been back in days. I didn’t call. I didn’t care.

I spent the next week recovering, talking to my lawyer, sorting out the details of a life I no longer wanted.

The curtains stayed closed, the world outside went on turning, and I stayed perfectly still, like someone waiting for the noise to fade.

Then, one afternoon, it came — Clarissa’s newest Instagram post.

Eden, who hated cameras, wore a ridiculous cartoon headband, smiling down at her as she posed for maternity photos.

Their hands formed a heart over her stomach.

The caption read: “Our little miracle, growing stronger every day.”

They looked radiant — blissful, glowing, real.

I pressed the heart icon beneath the post.

A small, deliberate act.

A digital signature of surrender.

Three days later, my phone rang.

Eden.

“Dinner at the Jenkins estate tonight,” he said curtly. “Mom wants to talk to you.”

Of course she did.

By then, my suitcase was half-packed, the divorce papers signed and ready. I decided to go — to make it official.

When I arrived, my usual seat at the dining table was already taken.

By Clarissa.

Eden’s mother, Miranda, was sitting beside her, holding her hand as though they were family — which, I supposed, they were now.

Miranda hadn’t smiled at me once in seven years. But tonight, she couldn’t stop smiling.

“Lucia,” she said, her tone honeyed and sharp, “you’ve been married to Eden for five years, and still no child. You know how much I’ve wanted a grandbaby.”

Her fingers squeezed Clarissa’s hand tenderly. “Poor Clarissa. Losing Cameron so young. Thank God Eden was there to help her.”

I said nothing. Miranda had always been like this — turning kindness into a weapon, politeness into a test.

“Now that Clarissa’s carrying a Jenkins baby,” she continued, fixing me with that false, sympathetic smile, “I’ve asked her to move in. It’s better for everyone. You don’t mind, do you?”

The room waited.

Once, her words would’ve burned me alive.

Once, I would’ve tried to defend myself — to prove that I belonged here.

But now, all I felt was emptiness.

I met her gaze, my voice level and clear.

“I have no objection.”