Chapter 2

The next morning, I hobbled into our home office, needing to print out some insurance forms. I sat down at the desktop, a sleek machine Olivia had bought for "work efficiency," and moved the mouse. The screen lit up, asking for a password.

That was new. It had always been an open computer. I typed in our anniversary, 0814.

"Incorrect password."

I tried my birthday. Her birthday. The name of our first dog. Nothing.

A cold suspicion crept into my mind. I thought about Liam. What was his birthday? I remembered seeing it on a company form once. June 26.

I typed in 0626.

The screen unlocked.

I stared at the desktop, a picture of Olivia accepting some business award. For a full minute, I didn't breathe. He had replaced me so completely that he was even the key to our shared home. The password to a life I thought was ours was the birthday of the man she preferred.

The irony was so bitter it almost made me laugh. I had spent a decade building a home with her, and I was locked out by a four-digit code that celebrated another man.

I started to go through my things. It didn't take long. Most of my old life-my books, my half-finished projects, my hobbies-was packed away in boxes in the garage, moved there to make more space for Olivia's "aesthetic."

The closet was a monument to her success. Racks of designer suits, shelves of expensive shoes. My section was a small corner, filled with practical, unexciting clothes I bought on sale. I remembered arguing with her once about buying a new jacket.

"We need to be saving for the IVF, Ethan," she had said, her tone sharp. "It's incredibly expensive. We can't afford frivolous things right now."

I had put the jacket back, feeling guilty. Now, I thought about the new Rolex I' d seen on Liam's wrist in his latest social media post. I knew Olivia' s extravagant gift-giving habits. My sacrifice had paid for her affection towards him.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Olivia.

"Don't forget your injection is tomorrow. You need to be in optimal condition. The doctor said your stress levels could be affecting the results. Try to relax."

The casual cruelty of it stole my breath. She was blaming me for our infertility, for the failure of a dream she had already abandoned. She was pushing me to prepare my body for a child she had no intention of having with me.

I needed to find my passport. I hobbled over to the filing cabinet in the back of the closet, a place for old documents and things we never looked at. I rummaged through folders of old tax returns and car titles. My fingers brushed against a small, decorative box I didn't recognize.

Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled it out and opened it.

Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was a positive pregnancy test.

My heart stopped. We had never gotten a positive test. Every month was a new disappointment.

But this wasn't the only thing in the box. Underneath it was a folded piece of paper. A receipt from a private medical clinic.

It was dated four months ago. The service listed was "Surgical Procedure." The patient's name was Olivia Hayes.

My eyes scanned the details, my mind refusing to process what I was seeing. The date on the receipt was the same week she had told me she was going on a "last-minute business retreat" to a spa resort. A trip she had insisted on taking alone to "de-stress" before our next IVF cycle. A trip Liam had also been on.

I felt the blood drain from my face. The box fell from my hands, its contents spilling onto the floor.

She had been pregnant. And it wasn't with my child. She had been pregnant with Liam's child, and she had gotten rid of it. All while pushing me, blaming me, making me inject myself with hormones for a future she had already terminated.

Something inside me shattered. The numbness was gone, replaced by a wave of nausea and a rage so profound it made me tremble. The ten years of my life, the love I had given so freely, it was all a joke. A long, cruel, pathetic joke.

I fell back against the wall, the cast on my leg a dead weight. I laughed. A raw, broken sound that echoed in the empty, silent house. It was the sound of a man who had finally, completely hit rock bottom.

With a strange, new clarity, I pulled out my phone. My hands were perfectly steady now. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for the fertility clinic.

A cheerful voice answered. "Genesis Fertility, how can I help you?"

"Hello," I said, my voice cold and even. "I'm calling to cancel all future appointments for Ethan and Olivia Miller. Yes, permanently. We will not be proceeding."

I hung up before she could ask any questions.

My next call was to a number I'd found online last night.

"Chen Law Offices."

"Hello," I said. "My name is Ethan Miller. I need to speak with Grace Chen about filing for divorce."

The ten years of love I had for Olivia didn't fade away. They didn't die a slow death. They were executed. In the space of a single heartbeat, they turned to ash and blew away, leaving nothing behind but a cold, empty space.