Chapter 1

After giving birth, I gained twenty pounds. For the next six months, my husband didn't touch me once.

One night, I reached out to him in bed and quietly asked what was wrong between us.

He shifted away, his brow furrowing in disgust.

"Look in the mirror, Chloe. You've completely let yourself go. Zero discipline. You're not the woman I fell in love with."

He grabbed his car keys and walked out. He didn't come home that night.

I stood before the full-length mirror, pinching the loose, soft skin on my stomach, and swore I would lose the weight.

Three months later, I was back to my pre-pregnancy body.

I thought things would finally go back to normal. Until the day he left his laptop open in the living room.

A notification from a contact named Vanessa popped up on the screen: "Stop bringing me all these treats! I'm going to get fat."

He replied: "I like you a little softer anyway. Right now, hugging you feels too bony."

I stared at that sentence for a long, long time.

He never hated the weight. He just hated me.

That evening, I sat at the kitchen counter eating my low-carb salad. When he walked in, he glanced at my plate and sneered.

"Why bother? No matter how much you starve yourself, you'll never be the girl I fell in love with."

I put down my fork and met his eyes.

"Probably because my name isn't Vanessa."

"Did you go through my laptop?"

His first reaction wasn't guilt. It was an accusation.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Who is she, Lucas? How long have you two been sleeping together?"

I locked eyes with him, demanding an answer.

He looked away, his jaw tightening.

"Why are you invading my privacy?"

"Your laptop was open on the coffee table. The notifications were popping up on the screen."

He went completely silent.

After an agonizing pause, he finally muttered, "She's just an intern at the firm. Nothing happened. It's completely innocent. Don't blow this out of proportion."

"An intern? And you're hugging her?" My voice cracked, tears stinging my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "I didn't realize wrapping your arms around interns was part of your job description."

His throat bobbed. His face turned sour.

"How much did you read?"

No apology. No real explanation. He simply marched over to the coffee table, closed the messaging app, and slammed the laptop shut.

He moved frantically, terrified I might catch a glimpse of something else.

Watching his panicked back, a wave of hollow, desperate laughter bubbled up in my throat.

He didn't use to be like this.

When we were dating, he gave me the world. He never hid his phone, never set secret passcodes, and his lock screen was always a photo of us laughing together.

He used to drive across town at midnight just to bring me my favorite strawberry shortcake.

On rainy days, he would wait outside my office building, tilting his umbrella entirely over me while his own shoulder got soaked.

I genuinely believed he was the one.

Until I got pregnant.

As my belly expanded, my ankles swelled like balloons, and backaches kept me awake through the night. That was when he started changing.

He rarely came home. The excuse was always overtime.

"I have to provide for our baby. You need to understand," he would say.

I believed him every single time.

On the day my water broke, I was shaking from the pain. I called him over and over, but the calls went straight to voicemail.

I signed the medical consent forms all by myself.

I went into the delivery room all by myself.

During the first month after childbirth, I gained twenty pounds.

And for six months, he treated me like a stranger in our own bed.

That night when I asked what was wrong, he sneered, told me I had zero discipline, and walked out.

I spent three grueling months starving myself, working out, and caring for a newborn alone just to fit into my old clothes.

I thought that would fix us.

Until I saw that message on his screen today.

Lucas stood before me now, his arms crossed. His face held no remorse—only annoyance.

"I'll say it one last time: there's nothing going on. Stop picking fights out of thin air."

"Picking fights?" I took a shaky breath. "You're holding her and telling her you like her curvier, and you call this picking fights?"

"And you snooping on my computer? What do you call that?"

"The screen lit up right in front of me!"

He choked on his words, cornered.

Frustrated, he yanked at his tie and ran a hand through his hair. "Enough. There's nothing to discuss. You're overthinking everything."

"Am I?" I stared at him, feeling every ounce of affection draining out of me. "If you want her, fine. Go marry her. I want a divorce."