Chapter 2

Alena Koch POV:

Britney' s words, a poisoned dart aimed at Jake, pierced me instead. He shot her a look, a sharp, almost angry flick of his eyes, then turned back to the director, a forced laugh rattling in his chest. "Alena? Married? No, no, Davion, that's impossible. She wouldn' t. Not without me." His denial, so absolute, was a cruel echo of his arrogance, a testament to how little he truly knew me now.

I finished my consultation with Dr. Reed, the soft hum of the medical equipment a stark contrast to the buzzing anxiety in my chest. The doctor had been kind, her words of encouragement a balm. Now I just needed to pick up the prescription. I walked towards the pharmacy counter, gripping the small paper slip in my hand like a lifeline.

Then, our eyes met. Across the crowded waiting area, his gaze locked onto mine. The casual confidence that had surrounded him moments ago evaporated, replaced by a flicker of disbelief, then a growing, self-assured smirk. He started walking towards me, his stride long and purposeful, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Alena," he breathed, his voice a low rumble, a sound I hadn't truly heard in years. He stood before me, blocking out the light, his smile too wide, too confident. "I knew it. I knew you' d still be waiting for me. It' s almost our anniversary, isn't it? Our original wedding date. You remembered." He didn' t wait for my answer. He plunged ahead, his words a flood of self-justification. "I' m so sorry I couldn' t be there. The project, you know. Top secret. But I' m back now, Alena. And we can finally make things right."

His eyes drifted to the sign above the counter: "Obstetrics and Gynecology." A flicker of concern, manufactured and hollow, crossed his face. "Are you... are you okay? You' re not sick, are you? All those years, waiting for me... did it take a toll?" I remembered his fake concern, a performance he' d perfected. The way he' d ask about my day during those rare calls, never truly listening, always waiting for his turn to talk about Britney' s latest drama. I' d waited, foolishly, for a man who saw my unwavering loyalty as a given, my suffering as an inconvenience.

But that Alena was gone. I shook my head, a small, almost imperceptible movement, ready to tell him the truth. Ready to shatter his illusion.

Before I could speak, he laughed, a dismissive sound, and grabbed Britney' s arm, pulling her forward to the pharmacy counter. "Excuse us, Doctor," he said, not to a doctor, but to the pharmacist, his tone condescending. "My friend here has a delicate constitution. Could you perhaps take her first? She gets faint easily."

Britney, ever the performer, clutched her head, her eyes fluttering dramatically. "Oh, Jake, no, Alena was here first. I can wait. My little headache isn't as important." Her voice was soft, laced with a feigned modesty that made my stomach churn.

Jake ignored her, tightening his grip. "Nonsense, darling. Alena is used to waiting. She won't mind, will you, Alena?" He turned to me, his smile wide and unfeeling. "You' re a patient girl, always have been."

His words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Used to waiting. He' d meant it as a compliment, a testament to my devotion. But all I heard was the echo of a thousand forgotten moments, a thousand times I' d been pushed aside. I remembered the endless nights crying into my pillow, clutching my phone, hoping for a call that never came. I remembered the day my mother was diagnosed, how I' d frantically messaged him, desperate for comfort, and his three-word reply: "Tough break, hon."

He' d joked about it, actually. "You' re so dramatic, Alena. It' s just life. Britney understands." Britney understood because he was right there, whispering reassurances, holding her hand, while I was left to deal with the crushing weight of reality alone. His "top-secret work" wasn't always top-secret. Sometimes, his "busy schedule" involved taking Britney to obscure indie concerts, comforting her after a bad date, or simply being her endless emotional support. I was a clown, listening to his colleagues praise his "devotion" to his "little sister," while I withered in the shadows, my own pain invisible.

I' d tried to fight for us. I' d sent him heartfelt letters, emails filled with my fears, my love, my longing. I' d even flown to the nearest city to the facility, just to be closer to him, hoping to catch a glimpse, a stolen moment. He had come home once, briefly, after two years. He' d knelt, ring in hand, and promised to cut Britney off, to focus on us. I' d been ecstatic, a fool believing my love had finally been recognized. Then he was gone again, another "urgent mission," another cycle of neglect, another year of his short, precious personal time dedicated solely to Britney.

My emotional needs had simply ceased to exist, replaced by hers.

"Alena Koch?" The pharmacist' s voice cut through my painful memories. "Your prescription is ready." She handed me a small bag. "Remember, take these as instructed. They'll help with conception, dear."

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Jake's eyes widened, his smug smile dissolving into a mask of pure shock. The air crackled with a sudden, suffocating silence.