Ninety-Nine Chances Gone

For three years, I was James Cole's wife, a title he forced on me. But his relentless, obsessive love started to win me over. I was even pregnant with our child, finally daring to hope for a future together.

But the day I got the positive pregnancy test, the man who had been obsessed with me was gone. He began publicly chasing a young intern, Janay Rodgers, showering her with the same grand romantic gestures he once used to win my heart.

To win her over, he leaked a twisted story about my mother abandoning me, turning the public against me. He accused me of poisoning Janay and sided with his father to force me into a risky paternity test that threatened our baby's life.

He orchestrated a live TV interview where my own mother was paid to call me a gold-digger, all to make Janay look like a triumphant hero.

When I collapsed in pain on stage from the shock, he ignored my pleas for help. He was too busy comforting Janay, who had a "broken wrist."

I lost our child that day.

Lying alone in the hospital, I heard his father demand he divorce me. His brother brought me the papers. I signed them without a second thought.

I didn't want his money or his apologies. I just wanted to disappear from his life forever.

Chapter 1

For three years, I was James Cole' s wife, a title he forced on me. In that time, the cold walls I built around my heart began to crack. His love was a relentless storm, and I, against my better judgment, started to find shelter in it. I was even starting to love him back.

The day the doctor confirmed my pregnancy, I felt a flicker of real hope. Our future, once a bleak landscape, seemed to hold the promise of something new, something alive.

But when I got home, the man who had been obsessed with me was gone.

James was distant. He stopped coming home at night. The warmth in his eyes was replaced by a chilling indifference.

Then, the news broke. He was publicly chasing Janay Rodgers, a young intern from a local radio station. He showered her with grand gestures, the kind of things he used to do for me.

Janay was fiercely independent, a woman who valued her freedom above all else. She was just like I used to be.

I heard his words to her, repeated in gossip columns and on social media.

"I'll be the constant wind beneath your wings. No matter how far you fly, I'll follow."

It was a painful echo of what he once told me.

"They say you can't grow blue roses in this city, but I'll make them bloom just for you. I don't believe you won't love me then."

In our garden, the blue roses he planted with his own hands were starting to wither. I took a pair of gardening shears and cut one down. The snap of the stem felt final. My foolish hope was dying with it.

His public displays for Janay were a constant torment. He cooked for her on a busy street corner, a spectacle for all to see. Meanwhile, I sat alone at family dinners, enduring my relatives' sharp criticisms and pitying looks.

"Why isn't James here, Erica? A man needs his freedom, but this is too much."

I just smiled and said nothing.

I went home and cut down another rose.

One evening, I saw an interview with Janay. She said casually, "The Earth is also home to animals. Pets should be free."

The next day, my cat was gone. He was my companion for ten years, a part of my family long before James. James had released him onto the street. Without a word.

I searched for days, my voice raw from calling his name. All I found was his tracker, lying in an alley, stained with blood.

I trembled as I returned to the garden. I cut down another rose. And another. And another. My hands shook, but my movements were steady.

Then, to boost Janay' s radio show ratings, James did the unthinkable. He leaked a story about my past, twisting the painful memory of my mother's abandonment. He fabricated details, painting her as a promiscuous woman who left her child for a man.

The internet erupted.

"Like mother, like daughter."

"No wonder her husband left her for a pure girl like Janay."

"She' s probably just as trashy as her mom."

The comments flooded my screen, each one a fresh wound. I was heartbroken. I went back to the garden, the shears feeling heavy in my hand. I continued to cut down the roses, one by one, until only six remained.

I stopped. I would give him six more chances. Six more opportunities to destroy me completely.

My role as Mrs. Cole required me to attend a university graduation ceremony as the wife of an honorary board member. As I sat in the front row, I flipped through the program. Janay Rodgers' s name was listed among the top graduates. Her resume was impressive.

James arrived late. He walked past me without a glance, his eyes fixed on the stage where Janay was about to receive a scholarship.

Just as her name was called, James' s assistant walked up to the dean and whispered something. The dean' s expression changed. He cleared his throat and announced a sudden disqualification.

"Due to concerns raised by Mrs. Cole regarding Ms. Rodgers's character, we must rescind the scholarship offer."

The crowd gasped. All eyes turned to me. Then to Janay, whose face was a mask of shock and devastation. James immediately went to her, leaving me to face the scorn of hundreds of people.

He was using me. He was painting me as the villain to make Janay see him as her savior.

Janay ran from the hall in tears. As she passed me, she stopped.

"How could you?" she whispered, her voice tight with rage. "You have everything. Why would you crush someone else' s dream?"

I said nothing. I just sat there, enduring her words, knowing James was watching, satisfied with how his plan was unfolding.

The crowd's applause for Janay's earlier speech about self-reliance echoed in my memory. Now, they saw her as a victim and me as a cruel, jealous wife.

I watched James's back as he chased after her. I saw the look in his eyes, the same intense, obsessive fire that he once reserved for me. It was a look I knew all too well.

My mind flashed back.

Before James, there was Mark. We had been together for five years, high school sweethearts who were planning a wedding. Our life was simple, but it was ours.

Then James Cole saw me at a charity event. He decided he wanted me.

He didn't woo me with flowers. He created an "accident." A construction site mishap that left Mark with a shattered leg and a mountain of debt. James's company was conveniently responsible.

Then James played the hero. He showed up at the hospital, offering to cover all of Mark' s medical bills and pay off his debts. On one condition.

I had to marry him.

I saw through the charade. I saw the cold calculation in his eyes. My hate for him was immediate and absolute.

But Mark, broken and terrified of James's power, took the deal. He left me with a simple, "I'm sorry, Erica. I can't fight him."

I was betrayed twice over. My heart was a wasteland. I agreed to marry James, not out of choice, but out of sheer, numb defeat.

The first year was a silent war. I refused to speak to him. He, in turn, was relentlessly gentle. He never forced himself on me. He would sit at the dinner table, eating alone while I stayed in my room. He would leave small, thoughtful gifts on my pillow that I would promptly throw away.

Then came the blue roses.

He filled the garden with them, a flower that couldn't naturally grow in our climate. He spent a fortune creating a specialized greenhouse environment just for them.

"I'll make them bloom for you," he had said, his voice soft. "And then you'll love me."

When the first blue rose bloomed, I felt something shift inside me. His persistence, his unwavering, obsessive focus, had slowly worn me down. I started to talk to him. I started to let him in. I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, this twisted beginning could lead to real love.

We had a year of something that felt like happiness. Then I got pregnant. And he lost interest.

The spell was broken. His conquest was complete.

The university ceremony was a blur of hostile whispers and accusatory glares. James' s assistant appeared at my side.

"Mrs. Cole, Mr. Cole suggests it would be best if you left now."

His voice was polite, but the message was clear. My part in the play was over. I was no longer needed.

I stood up and walked out, my head held high, though my insides were churning. I was just a tool, a stepping stone for his new romance.

The driver opened the car door for me. As we pulled away from the campus, I watched the students celebrating, their faces bright with hope. I had been one of them once.

The car was a silent, air-conditioned bubble, but it couldn't protect me from the flood of memories. I remembered a day, not long after we were married, when James had brought me back to this same campus. We had a photoshoot, a strange, staged version of the wedding photos I never had with him.

He had been so sweet that day, so boyish. In the middle of the shoot, he got down on one knee. He didn't have a diamond. He had a simple ring he' d made himself from a bent piece of wire and a small wildflower.

"It's silly, I know," he' d said, his cheeks flushed. "But I wanted to do this. I'm willing to be childish and ridiculous for you, Erica."

It was those moments, those small, seemingly sincere gestures, that had finally broken my defenses.

Now, he was re-enacting those same romantic scenes with Janay.

A wave of nausea washed over me, and I gagged, my stomach heaving.

The driver, alarmed, immediately changed course. "To the hospital, Mrs. Cole?"

I nodded, unable to speak. I remembered James' s strict orders to all his staff: my health was the absolute priority. Another bitter irony.

At the hospital, the doctor ran some tests. The baby was fine, all indicators normal. But the doctor looked at me with concern.

"Erica, your hormone levels are a bit erratic. And you seem... distressed."

I tried to force a smile. "I'm just tired."

"It's more than that," the doctor said gently. "These are early signs of prenatal depression. It's very important to have your partner's support during this time. You need rest and a calm environment."

The examination room fell silent. I fought back tears, the doctor's words confirming the cold dread in my heart. He saw my expression and stopped talking.

When I got home, I walked straight to the garden. The six remaining blue roses drooped on their stems. My heart felt just as cold and withered.

I raised the shears and cut down another one.

Five left.

I had dinner alone. The cook prepared my favorite meal, but I had no appetite. I simply stared at the single blue rose I' d placed in a vase on the table.

James came home late, well past midnight. He saw the lights on and scowled, assuming I was waiting up to confront him.

"What is it now, Erica?" he snapped, his voice laced with irritation. "Are you going to give me another one of your silent, judgmental stares?"

I didn't answer. The driver, following him in, quietly handed him the report from the hospital. "Sir, the doctor's report. He said Mrs. Cole needs your support."

James glanced at the folder, a sneer twisting his lips. "Prenatal depression? What new trick is this?"

He tossed the report onto a side table without opening it. "You're getting more and more creative with your attempts to get my attention."

My breath caught in my throat. He didn' t even look at me. He just continued, his voice cold and detached.

"I've fallen in love with someone else, Erica. It happens."

He spoke as if he were discussing a business merger.

"My love for you hasn't disappeared," he said, the words sounding hollow and absurd. "It's just... evolved. You will always be Mrs. Cole. Your position is secure. But my exclusive love? That's no longer on the table."

He loosened his tie, his gaze finally meeting mine. It was devoid of any warmth.

"Think of it like an investment portfolio. Sometimes you need to diversify to keep things fresh. I suggest you learn to look the other way."

The sheer ridiculousness of his words almost made me laugh. He was trying to rationalize his betrayal as a sound business decision.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I was too tired, too numb. I just stared at him, my silence a stark contrast to his callous speech.

His eyes flickered to the single blue rose in the vase on the table. A flash of something-guilt, maybe-crossed his face before it was gone.

"I'll have dinner with you," he sighed, as if it were a great sacrifice. "It's my responsibility, after all."

He sat down opposite me, his posture stiff and unwilling.

I remembered the times he would race home from work just to have dinner with me. The times he' d surprise me with desserts he' d learned to make himself because I had a sweet tooth.

Now, I could clearly see the impatience on his face. I wanted to be indifferent. I wanted it not to hurt. But the chasm between the man he was and the man he had become was too vast. The memory of his past warmth made his current coldness feel like a physical blow.

I lost what little appetite I had. I stood up and walked back to my bedroom without a word.

I remembered him chasing me around the house with a spoon, coaxing me to eat when I was sick.

Now, he just watched me go, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He probably thought I was playing hard to get. He went to sleep in the guest room.

Later that night, hunger pangs drove me downstairs. The lights in the kitchen were on. I saw James standing at the stove, his back to me.

He was cooking.

His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his strong forearms. The way his knuckles looked as he gripped the spatula was so familiar it ached. He dipped a spoon into the pot to taste the soup, a small, intimate gesture that sent a jolt of false hope through me.

The kitchen island was covered with an array of beautifully prepared dishes. My heart fluttered. For a crazy second, I thought it was for me. An apology. A peace offering.

My eyes suddenly felt wet.

But then he started packing everything into insulated food containers, his movements quick and efficient.

He turned and saw me standing there. His face was a blank mask.

"This isn't for you," he said flatly.

He walked past me, carrying the containers, and headed for the door, leaving me alone in the scent of food I wouldn't eat.

I let out a shaky, self-mocking laugh.

I was about to go back upstairs and pack a bag, to leave this house and this life behind, when the sound of cars pulling up outside stopped me.

The maids scrambled to line up by the door, their faces tense.

My stomach sank. I knew who it was.

Guss Frost, James' s father, strode in, his presence filling the room with an oppressive weight. He was a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.

He saw me on the stairs and his lip curled in disdain.

"Pregnant and already putting on airs," he said, his voice a low growl. "You don't even come down to greet your elders?"

I walked down the rest of the stairs. Before I could speak, he barked another order.

"Make me some tea."

A maid moved to help, but Guss shot her a look that froze her in place. "I was speaking to her."

I went to the kitchen, my hands trembling slightly as I prepared the tea. I brought the cup to him. He didn't take it. He just stared at me, his eyes cold and assessing.

"You don't know the rules, do you? Now that you carry the Frost family heir, you should be even more mindful of your place."

The teacup rattled in my hand, and hot liquid spilled over my fingers, stinging my skin.

Then he delivered the final blow.

"We will need to conduct a paternity test on the fetus. We must ensure the purity of the Frost bloodline."

A violent shiver ran through me. The teacup slipped from my grasp, shattering on the marble floor. A sharp pain shot through my stomach.

I instinctively clutched my belly. "No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "An amniocentesis... it's dangerous this early."

Guss slammed his cane on the floor. "The Frost bloodline is what matters! If that thing in your belly isn't a Frost, it's worthless!"

I stared at him in disbelief, a cold dread seeping into my bones. He saw my child not as a life, but as an asset.

"I won't let you hurt my baby," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of strength.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers shaking. "James... James won't let you do this."

I dialed his number. As the call connected, I heard his ringtone. It was coming from the doorway.

I turned, a wave of relief washing over me. He was here. He would protect us. James stood there, his face a dark storm cloud.

For a brief, naive moment, I felt a surge of love. He had come back for me.