Chapter 1

The notification popped up on my phone, a simple Instagram tag.

My heart did a little flip, thinking Chloe was sharing another ultrasound picture, or maybe something cute for the baby' s room.

We' d been so excited, planning everything.

I tapped it open.

The image hit me like a physical blow.

Chloe, pale but smiling weakly, lay in a hospital bed.

Next to her, in another bed, was Mark, her ex-husband.

They were holding hands.

The caption read: "This time, I'm choosing to be brave for love. #sacrifice #bonemarrowdonor #fighter."

My world tilted.

Bone marrow donor?

Our baby.

Where was our baby?

The comments were already flooding in, praising her, calling her a hero, an angel.

No one knew.

No one knew what she' d just thrown away.

My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone.

The room, once filled with dreams of a nursery, felt cold, empty.

The little blue booties I' d bought last week sat on the dresser, a mocking reminder.

I sank into my chair, the air punched from my lungs.

She hadn't said a word.

Not one word about this.

About Mark needing a transplant, about her being a match, about her decision.

About our child.

Hours later, or maybe it was days, the front door opened.

Chloe walked in, leaning heavily on the doorframe, looking fragile.

I didn't move from the chair.

"Ethan? You're just sitting there?"

Her voice was weak, laced with an expectation of concern.

"You didn't even come to the hospital. I was so scared."

I stared at her, the woman I thought I knew.

The woman who had carried our future.

"The procedure was rough," she continued, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "I need to rest. And you need to make me some food. The doctor gave me a list."

She actually tried to hand me a piece of paper.

A list of special meals for her recovery.

My voice, when I finally found it, was flat, devoid of any warmth I once had for her.

"Mark can take care of you."

She recoiled as if I' d slapped her.

"What? Ethan, what's wrong with you? He's sick! I just saved his life!"

"And what about our baby, Chloe?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

She waved a dismissive hand, a gesture so familiar, so infuriating.

"Don't be dramatic, Ethan. It was the only way. Mark needed me."

She didn't get it. She truly didn't get the magnitude of what she'd done.

The casual destruction.

"I have a work trip coming up," I said, my mind already miles away.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "A work trip? Now? You're leaving me when I'm like this? After everything I've been through?"

The sheer audacity of her entitlement was breathtaking.

I remembered all the nights I' d cooked for her, catered to her every whim, put her feelings above everything.

The countless doctor' s appointments I' d attended, holding her hand, sharing her excitement.

The nursery we painted together, the tiny clothes we folded.

All of it, a lie.

She started to cry then, big, theatrical tears.

"How can you be so heartless, Ethan? I thought you loved me. I did this for love!"

Whose love, Chloe? Certainly not ours.

My love for her had died the moment I saw that Instagram post.

The photo of her and Mark, hands clasped, a public declaration of her choice.

A choice that didn't include me or our child.

A hot, silent rage built inside me, a pressure cooker with no release valve.

She was dismissing the life of our child as if it were a minor inconvenience.

"You need to cook for me," she repeated, her voice now a demand. "I'm weak. I need specific things."

I looked at the list she still held out.

It felt like an insult.